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THE   DEFENCE  OF  GUENEVERE 


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THE  DEFENCE  OF 
GUENEVERE  AND 
OTHER  POEMS  BY 
WILLIAM  MORRIS 
EDITED  BY  ROBERT 
STEELE 


PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE   W.  JACOBS  &  CO. 
PUBLISHERS 


".     .     .     .    THE    SAME    THAT    OFT-TIMES    HATH 
CHARMED    MAGIC    CASEMENTS    OPENING    0*ER    THE    FOAM, 
OF    PERILOUS    SEAS    IN    FAERY    LANDS    FORLORN." 


95^5 

cL 

1^0 


INTRODUCTION 


The    Romantic    Revival.     Ossian.— The 

beginnings  of  the  Romantic  Revival  in  England 
stand  out  in  marked  contrast  to  the  works  which 
represent  to  us  the  triumphs  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  At  a  time  when  Goldsmith,  Churchill, 
Young,  Blair  and  Thomson,  Falconer  and  Gray  were 
the  acknowledged  exponents  of  English  poetry  the 
first  notes  of  revolt  against  formal,  classic,  and  con- 
ventional expression  were  sounded  through  Western 
Europe  by  an  obscure  Scottish  clergyman.  In  Ossian, 
poor  in  ideas  and  limited  in  range  as  it  was,  the 
eighteenth  century  found  something  of  the  mystery 
lying  round  and  underneath  Nature,  of  the  heroes 
of  dim  legend  and  the  spirits  of  the  mist  and  the 
wind,  and  from  its  revolt  of  unfettered  lyricism,  the 
Romantic  reaction  may  be  said  to  date  its  inception. 
The  immediate  and  widespread  success  of  Ossia?t  is 
almost  as  inexplicable  to  those  who  have  read  it  as  to 


ivi664578 


INTRODUCTION 

the  rest  of  the  world  of  to-day.  Beneath  its  unfamiliar 
form  and  the  glorification  of  an  unknown  mythology 
of  bards  and  heroes  there  was  little  of  solid  value  to 
be  found  in  it,  and  its  acceptance  shows  how  ripe 
was  time  and  opportunity  for  change.  It  was  trans- 
lated into  nearly  every  European  language,  it  in- 
fluenced every  great  writer  of  the  time,  it  was  a 
favourite  book  of  Napoleon,  of  Walter  Scott,  of 
Goethe,  it  produced  Blake.  But  with  ardent  admirers 
it  found  bitter  enemies.  That  Macpherson  claimed 
to  have  made  literal  translations  of  existing  Gaelic 
texts  was  made  the  pretext  for  an  attack,  not  only  on 
the  authenticity  of  Ossian,  but  on  its  intrinsic  worth  ; 
a  new  battle  of  the  moderns  and  the  ancients  was 
fought  over  it,  and  the  resulting  controversy  was  long 
and  bitter.  In  the  midst  of  it  appeared  a  second 
book  destined  to  have  an  equal  and  more  permanent 
influence  on  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

The  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry. 

— Thomas  Percy,  an  English  clergyman,  was  already 
known  as  a  writer  of  merit,  who  had  translated  from 
the  Icelandic  and  other  languages,  when  stimulated 
by  the  success  of  Macpherson,  he  published  in  1765 
his  three  small  volumes  of  selections  of  English  ballad 
poetry.     The  fortunate  discovery  some  years  earlier 


INTRODUCTION 

in  a  cupboard  of  an  old  house  at  ShifFnal  of  a  manu- 
script collection  of  ballads  made  before  the  Civil 
War,  which  was  being  used  for  fire-lighting,  was 
the  basis  of  his  work,  and  on  the  publication  of  his 
proposals  he  had  received  much  encouragement  and 
assistance.  Thomas  Warton,  one  of  the  most  learned 
English  scholars  of  the  eighteenth  century,  examined 
for  him  Pepys'  collection  at  Cambridge,  other  scholars 
and  poets  gave  him  ballads  taken  from  the  lips  of 
peasants.  He  altered  and  corrected  the  poems,  it  is  true, 
to  meet  the  taste  of  the  century  :  yet,  infelicitous  as  are 
his  emendations,  nothing  can  take  from  his  work  the 
commanding  place  it  holds  in  the  history  of  English 
poetry.  As  Wordsworth  once  said,  there  was  not  an 
able  writer  of  his  time  who  would  not  acknowledge, 
as  he  himself  did,  his  obligations  to  the  Reltques. 
Miss  Mitford,  in  her  Literary  Recollections^  says,  "  to 
that  book  ...  we  owe  the  revival  of  the  taste 
for  romantic  and  lyrical  poetry,  which  had  lain  dor- 
mant since  the  days  of  the  Commonwealth."  Scott 
put  the  Reltques  beside  Ossian  and  Spenser  :  "  above 
all  I  then  first  became  acquainted  with  Percy.  .  .  . 
The  first  time  I  could  scrape  a  few  shillings  together  I 
bought  unto  myself  a  copy  of  these  beloved  volumes  ; 
nor  do  I  believe  I  ever  read  a  book  half  so  frequently,  or 


INTRODUCTION 

with  half  the  enthusiasm."  One  of  the  most  important 
of  the  results  of  Percy's  publication  was  the  attention 
it  directed  to  the  old  ballads — the  most  typical  and 
distinctive  form  of  English  poetry. 

Ballad  Poetry. — No  better  description  of  it 
can  be  found  than  in  some  lines  written  by  William 
Morris  himself  in  1887,  when  dealing  with  the 
poetry  of  feudal  times.  "  Alongside  of  it  (Chaucer's 
poetry)  existed  yet  the  ballad  poetry  of  the  people, 
wholly  untouched  by  courtly  elegance  and  classical 
pedantry  ;  rude  in  art,  but  never  coarse,  true  to  the 
back-bone  ;  instinct  with  indignation  against  wrong, 
and  thereby  expressing  the  hope  that  was  in  it ;  a 
protest  of  the  poor  against  the  rich,  especially  in 
those  songs  of  the  Foresters,  which  have  been  called 
the  Medieval  epic  of  revolt ;  no  more  gloomy  than 
the  gentleman's  poetry,  yet  cheerful  from  courage, 
and  not  content.  Half-a-dozen  stanzas  of  it  are 
worth  a  cart-load  of  the  whining  introspective  lyrics 
of  to-day  ;  and  he  who,  when  he  has  mastered  the 
slight  differences  of  language  from  our  own  daily 
speech,  is  not  moved  by  it,  does  not  understand  what 
true  poetry  means  nor  what  its  aim  is."  But  there 
is  another  side  to  these  poems.  Simple  and  natural 
as  they  are,  treating  of  .   .  . 


INTRODUCTION 

"  Old,  forgotten  far-oft'  things 
And  battles  long  ago," 

they  preserve,  too,  an  essential  element  of  the 
mental  attitude  of  the  Middle  Age  to  its  surround- 
ings— the  spirit  of  wonder.  For  these  ballads 
are  not  only  an  epic  of  revolt  and  of  sport  and 
a  popular  history  of  the  events  which  struck  the 
popular  imagination  and  were  transformed  by  it,  but 
they  preserve  the  last  handlings  of  medieval  romance. 
In  them  we  have  the  ultimate  form  in  which 
Arthurian  Romance  appeared  before  the  romantic 
revival,  the  popular  rendering  of  the  Norman-French 
fabliaux,  and  the  popular  fairy  mythology  of  our 
English  ancestors.  Round  the  authorship  of  these 
ballads  a  long  controversy  has  raged,  principally  due, 
it  must  be  said,  to  the  forgetfulness  of  the  contro- 
versialists of  medieval  conditions.  On  the  one  side 
was  the  view  that  they  were  the  work  of  the  people 
themselves.  On  the  other  it  has  been  said  that  "  so 
far  from  its  being  a  spontaneous  product  of  popular 
imagination,  it  was  a  minstrels'  adaptation  from  the 
romances  of  the  educated  classes.  Everything  in  the 
ballad — matter,  form  and  composition — is  the  work 
of  the  minstrel  ;  all  that  the  people  do  is  to  remem- 
ber and  repeat  it."  But  this  view  assumes  the 
xvii 


INTRODUCTION 

immense  intellectual  difference  e.g.  between  Tenny- 
son and  his  middle-class  audience,  as  existing  in 
medieval  times,  as  does  the  remark  about  "  educated 
classes."  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  "  educated  classes " 
of  the  Middle  Age  were  not  that  public  for  whom 
romances  were  composed  or  recited,  which  was  com- 
posed of  the  governing  class,  which  was  intellectually 
on  the  same  footing  as  its  inferiors.  Moreover  we 
have  absolutely  no  evidence  that  the  minstrels  of  the 
fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries  were  authors  in 
any  sense,  whereas  there  is  universal  evidence  of  the 
spontaneous  outburst  of  songs  of  occasion,  which,  if 
they  last,  naturally  attach  themselves  to  ballad  cycles. 
An  exception  to  this  might  be  taken  in  the  case  of 
Blind  Harry  the  Minstrel  who  collected  and  recited 
the  popular  traditions  about  Wallace,  and  gained 
food  and  clothing  thereby,  but  apart  from  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  poet  before  his  blindness,  which  caused 
him  to  become  a  minstrel,  his  remains  are  hardly 
ballads  in  the  strict  sense  as  regards  form,  being  in 
the  heroic  couplet.  Yet  in  matter  they  breathe  the 
full  spirit  of  the  Middle  Age — legend  and  fact 
inextricably  mingled — heroism  and  wonder. 

The    Middle  Age   and    Romance.— The 

spirit  of  wonder  and  of  mystery  lies  deep  in  the  very 


INTRODUCTION 

being  of  the  Middle  Age.  Whatever  lay  outside  the 
narrow  circle  of  every-day  experience  was  strange  and 
possible,  and  the  limits  of  the  known  were  so  strait 
that  no  man  dare  discriminate  between  the  possible 
and  the  probable,  between  the  more  or  the  less  likely. 
Once  past  the  boundaries  of  the  native  manor,  a 
wanderer  was  in  a  foreign  land,  one's  neighbour  had 
seen  the  Wandering  Jew  at  Micklegarth  while  on  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  Hallows,  the  cinnamon  bought  at 
St.  James'  Fair  was,  it  was  known,  shot  from  the 
nest  of  the  phoenix  with  leaden  arrows,  the  silk  of 
my  lady's  robe  owed  its  crimson  to  a  dragon's  life- 
blood.  And  as  the  metes  of  the  natural  and  the 
unnatural  were  not  defined,  so  also  was  there  no 
division  of  the  natural  and  the  supernatural.  The 
life  of  this  world  and  that  which  is  to  come  were  to 
medieval  folk  as  continuous  as  the  round  w^orld,  and 
though  death  was  among  them  the  gateway  from  life 
to  life,  yet  other  lands  might  well  have  other  laws, 
and  folk  dwell  in  some  Secret  Isle  fearless  of  any 
change.  The  medieval  non-reverence  which  so  many 
take  for  irreverence  is  an  expression  of  this  sentiment. 
God  and  All  Hallows  were  as  near  and  as  far  as  the 
King — sometimes  terrible  and  inexplicable — sometimes 
gentle  and  debonair — but  never  inaccessible  to  those 


INTRODUCTION 

who  should  seek  them  rightly.  With  all  this  too 
was  a  certain  kind  of  symmetry  of  notion  —  a 
republic  of  Emperor,  subjects,  and  rebel  Kings  and 
subjects, — God  and  His  angels,  the  Devil  and  his 
Friends,  and  the  spirits  neither  good  nor  bad  who 
found  a  vague  existence  between  them.  Outside 
every  man,  then,  in  the  Middle  Age  lay  a  mysterious 
Universe,  on  which  his  manly  heart  looked  out  with 
na'fve  wonder.  It  is  this  spirit  in  a  new  form,  and 
on  a  different  plane  of  knowledge  and  sentiment,  that 
revived  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  Rowley  Poems  of  Chatterton. — Chat- 

terton  is  almost  the  only  predecessor  of  Scott  in  the 
Romantic  movement  of  whom  we  have  not  yet  traced 
the  influence.  An  appreciation  of  his  work  should 
be  left  to  a  poet  ;  Coleridge  has  written  it  in  the 
Monody  on  his  death,  and  Keats  in  the  dedication  of 
Endymion.     The  lines  of  Wordsworth, 

"  The  marvellous  boy. 
The  sleepless  soul,  that  perished  in  his  pride," 

describe  his  character  to  the  core.  His  productions, 
said  Campbell,  recall  those  of  an  ungrown  giant — 
incomplete,  with  the  touch  of  an  untaught  master 
hand  ;  the  promise  of  a  splendid  maturity,  side  by 
side  with  commonplace  imitations  of  magazine  verse. 


INTRODUCTION 

His  true  inspiration  was  not  the  verse  of  older  poets 
but  the  remains  of  antiquity  about  him.  St.  Mary 
Redcliffe  spoke  to  his  inmost  being  from  every  stone 
and  window,  and  created  for  him  again  the  dead 
souls  who  had  built  it  and  filled  it.  The  Rozvley 
Poems  were  not  unworthy  to  be  edited  by  Thomas 
Tyrwhitt,  and  will  go  down  to  posterity  as  one  of 
the  landmarks  of  English  Poetry,  while  even  in  the 
verse  written  on  the  accepted  models  of  his  day,  the 
origins  of  some  of  the  finest  lines  in  "  Kubla  Khan  " 
may  be  not  obscurely  discerned.  He  is  one  of  the 
fathers  of  English  Poetry,  however,  not  alone  because 
of  his  influence  on  poets  greater  than  himself,  but  in 
right  of  the  beauty  and  originality  of  his  own  pro- 
duction. "  In  one  of  the  last  and  finest  of  his 
poems,  the  *  Ballad  of  Charitie,'  he  anticipates  the 
peculiar  manner  and  sensuous  beauty  of  Keats,  before 
Keats  is  even  born.  And  more  than  this,  Chatterton 
anticipates,  by  nearly  a  century,  that  phase  of  our 
more  recent  verse  which  Mr.  Pater  has  designated 
*  the  Esthetic  School  of  Poetry.'  The  charm  of 
the  Rowley  Poems  lies  here  ;  it  is  a  charm  of  manner 
refined  on  manner  ;  of  a  sensuous  poetical  tempera- 
ment finding  expression  in  its  reveries  of  some 
poetical  mode  or  figure,  far  removed  by  time,  and 


INTRODUCTION 

dimmed  by  the  glamour  of  antique  circumstance." 
His  influence  on  his  time  was,  too,  important  as  an 
impulse  to  antiquarian  research.  The  controversy 
round  their  genuineness,  which  in  our  days  would 
not  have  lasted  ten  minutes,  inspired  inquiry  into 
realms  of  literature  utterly  unknown  even  to  pro- 
fessed students,  and  his  tragic  death  ensured  an 
audience  for  its  results. 

The  history  of  English  Poetry  between  Chatterton 
and  Coleridge  contains  some  great  names,  but  none 
that  have  created  a  school  or  deeply  influenced  their 
successors.  Among  them  are  Cowper,  Campbell, 
Blake,  and  Burns.  But  the  consideration  of  these 
belongs  to  a  general  history  of  literature,  and  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  recalling  that  while  they 
promise  the  sunrise,  they  are  but  the  first  glories  of 
the  dawn. 

Lyrical   Ballads   (1798).    Coleridge   and 

Wordsworth. — The  publication  of  this  little 
work  marks  the  beginning  of  the  Romantic  Revival. 
Like  many  other  important  books  its  publication 
attracted  little  attention,  and  the  500  copies  sold 
resulted  in  a  loss  to  the  publisher,  but  a  volume 
whose  first  piece  is  the  "  Ancient  Mariner "  and 
whose  last  is  "  Tintern   Abbey  "  could  hardly  fail  to 


INTRODUCTION 

exert  its  influence  on  any  mind  open  to  change.  It 
was  the  result  of  a  friendship  between  two  intensely 
original  and  creative  intelligences  at  the  critical  point 
of  their  development.  Both  had  written  respectable 
verse,  but  during  the  years  of  constant  association 
(1797-8)  in  the  Quantocks,  their  enthusiasm  was 
blown  to  a  white  heat,  and  "  Christabel "  and 
"  Kubla  Khan  "  were  produced  then  as  well  as  the 
pieces  published  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  The  principles 
actuating  the  authors  may  be  studied  at  length  in 
the  (1800)  preface  to  the  second  edition — they 
underlie  the  whole  romantic  movement.  The  poets 
are  curiously  alike  yet  different.  Each  is  master  of 
the  perfect  phrase — yet  the  distinction  made  between 
the  charm  of  Wordsworth  and  the  magic  of  Coleridge 
is  not  merely  verbal.  "  The  Ancient  Mariner  "  and 
"  Genevieve "  are  among  the  most  popular  repre- 
sentatives of  romantic  poetry,  and  deservedly  so.  On 
the  latter  the  poet  has  lavished  all  the  graces  of 
chivalry  at  its  ideal  exaltation,  in  the  former  he  has 
touched  the  limits  of  invention  and  belief.  He  stands 
alone  between  Spenser  and  Rossetti. 

Byron  and  Keats. — Before  leaving  this  period 
a  word  must  be  said  of  the  other  great  poets  of  the 
day — Keats,  Shelley,   and    Byron.      Byron,   instinct 


INTRODUCTION 

with  the  matter  of  poetry,  hardly  ever  attained  its 
form  in  any  measure  of  perfection,  and  it  is  to  this 
that  he  owes  the  Continental  reputation  he  enjoys, 
and  the  partial  oblivion  in  England  he  suffers,  for 
this  can  never  be  translated,  while  of  that  he  is 
amongst  the  richest  in  our  literature.  Shelley  has 
had  no  successor  till  after  the  days  when  our  study 
ends,  and  Keats,  though  in  some  immortal  poems 
he  has  touched  the  very  heart  of  romance,  experi- 
mented in  so  many  forms  that  it  is  difficult  to 
foresee  in  what  direction  his  muse  would  have 
ultimately  tended.  Southey,  an  early  companion  of 
Coleridge  and  his  friends,  rendered  inestimable  service 
to  the  progress  of  the  movement  by  his  edition 
of  Malory's  Morte  d^ Arthur — a  compendium  of 
Arthurian  romance  whose  sources  are  not  as  yet  fully 
known,  but  which  superseded  in  popular  favour  not 
only  the  ancient  romances  from  which  it  was  drawn, 
but  the  later  ballad  epic  which  was  its  rival. 

Walter  Scott. — We  are  in  some  danger,  in 
these  days,  of  under-estimating  the  place  which  Walter 
Scott  will  fill  in  the  history,  not  only  of  our  own,  but 
of  European  literature.  His  influence  on  England 
any  reader  of  ordinary  cultivation  may  estimate  if  he 
will  reflect  for  a  few  seconds, — but  to  quote  the  words 


INTRODUCTION 

of  a  recent  writer — "  what  is  infinitely  more  startling 
— what  gives  us  more  impressively  the  measure  of  a 
genius  as  transcendent  as  it  was  unobtrusive — is  the 
authority  it  almost  simultaneously  asserted  over  the 
thought  and  methods  of  the  foreign  schools  of 
romance."  Hugo  and  Balzac,  de  Vigny,  Merimee, 
and  Dumas  were  his  imitators,  Goethe  and  Chateau- 
briand his  panegyrists  ;  Quentin  Durward  made  Ranke 
a  historian,  and  inspired  the  Annales  des  Condes.  His 
works  were  translated  into  French  and  German  as  they 
appeared,  and  were  received  with  passionate  approval. 
We  have  already  spoken  of  Ossian  and  Percy  as 
early  influences  on  Scott's  development.  He  owed 
little  to  the  writers  of  his  time.  His  first  book  was  a 
translation  from  Burger  and  his  second  from  Goethe. 
His  first  original  work  was  published  in  conjunction 
with  Lewis  (who  deserves  mention  here  for  the 
excellence  of  the  ballads  in  his  fantastic  "  Monk  ") 
in  the  Tales  of  Wonder,  to  which  Scott  contributed 
"  William  and  Ellen,"  "  The  Eve  of  St.  John,"  and 
some  other  pieces.  The  collaboration  is  thus  com- 
memorated by  Byron  (1809)  just  after  the  publication 
of  "  Marmion  "  : — 

**  All  hail,  M.P.  !  from  whose  infernal  brain 
Thin  sheeted  phantoms  glide,  a  grisly  train  ; 


INTRODUCTION 

At  whose  command  *  grim  women '  throng  in  crowds, 
And  kings  of  fire,  of  water,  and  of  clouds, 
With  *  small  gray  men,'  *  wild  yagers '  and  what  not. 
To  crown  with  honour  thee,  and  Walter  Scott." 

Scott's  personal  preparations  for  his  work  lay  rather 
in  his  enormous  historical  reading,  and  his  eagerness 
as  a  student.  "  He  was  as  pleased  with  the  capture 
of  some  fag-end  of  a  song  as  his  freebooting  ancestors 
when  they  lifted  cattle  in  Cumberland,"  said  an  old 
friend,  and  it  was  this  determination  to  gather  up  all 
fragments  of  his  heritage  of  song  that  marks  him  out 
as  the  heir  in  succession  of  the  native  and  noble 
line  of  Romantic  Poets.  His  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border  (1802)  is  an  inexhaustible  storehouse  of  these 
remains,  and  one  of  the  most  potent  influences  in 
bringing  about  the  success  of  the  revival.  Yet  his 
preparation  would  have,  one  feels  somehow,  stopped 
short  of  achievement,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  happy 
accident  of  a  friend  endowed  with  a  memory  Eastern 
in  its  retentiveness,  who  had  heard  the  first  part  of 
"  Christabel  "  read  by  Coleridge,  and  repeated  it  to 
him.  He  sat  down  under  that  inspiration  and  wrote 
"  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  to  the  success  of 
which  we  owe,  implicitly,  the  whole  of  Scott's  later 
work.  His  verse  falls  short  of  his  inspiration  by  this, 
that  he  lacked  something  of  the  artistic  conscience  ; 


INTRODUCTION 

as  Mr.  Watts-Dunton  says,  "  the  distinctive  quality  of 
Scott  is  that  he  seems  to  be  greater  than  his  work — as 
much  greater  indeed,  as  a  towering  oak  seems  greater 
than  the  leaves  it  sheds." 

The    Romantic  Movement  in  Germany 
and  France.    Carlyle. — It  is  no  part  of  our 

scheme  to  give  anything  like  an  account  of  the 
growth  of  the  movement  in  these  countries.  The 
Romantic  School  in  France  especially  has  had  com- 
paratively little  influence  on  the  development  of  our 
own  literature.  The  political  situation — the  enmity 
between  England  and  France  in  Napoleonic  times, 
followed  by  the  long  years  of  the  Restoration 
Monarchy — may  account  for  this,  but  the  fact 
remains  that  German  Literature  during  the  whole  of 
that  period  was  the  most  potent  foreign  influence  on 
our  own.  We  may  quote  from  a  somewhat  unfriendly 
critic  a  characterisation  of  their  work.  "They  intro- 
duce a  new  tone  into  German  poetry,  give  their 
works  a  new  colour,  and  in  addition  to  this,  revive 
both  the  spirit  and  the  substance  of  the  old  fairy- 
tale, Volkslied,  and  legend.  .  .  .  Research  in  the 
domains  of  history,  ethnography  and  jurisprudence, 
the  study  of  German  antiquity,  Indian  and  Graeco- 
Latin  philology,  and  the  systems  and  dreams  of  the 


INTRODUCTION 

Natur-philosophie,  all  received  their  first  impulse  from 
Romanticism.  They  widened  the  emotional  range  of 
German  poetry,  though  the  emotions  to  which  they 
gave  expression  were  more  frequently  morbid  than 
healthy.  As  critics,  they  originally,  and  with  success, 
aimed  at  enlarging  the  spiritual  horizon  .  .  .  and 
vowed  undying  hatred  to  all  dead  conventionality  in 
the  relations  between  the  sexes.  The  best  among 
them  in  their  youth  laboured  ardently  for  the  intensi- 
fication of  that  spiritual  life  which  is  based  upon  a 
belief  in  the  supernatural "  (Brandes,  Main  Currents). 
Starting  from  Herder  and  Goethe,  the  German 
Romanticists  who  have  exercised  most  influence  in 
English  literature  are  Burger,  the  Schlegels,  Tieck, 
Musaeus,  Richter,  Fouque,  Arnim  and  Brentano, 
Hoffman,  and  the  brothers  Grimm. 

Coleridge  and  Wordsworth  had  visited  Germany 
after  the  publication  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  but 
their  work  shows  little  trace  of  any  effect  of  the 
contemporary  but  independent  movement  of  the 
German  Romanticists. 

The  influence  of  this  school  was  exercised  most 
directly  on  Campbell,  Scott  and  Carlyle.  In  Campbell 
it  is  apparent  in  his  ballads,  while  the  earliest  literary 
work  of  the  others  was  based  on  the  writings  of  this 


INTRODUCTION 

school,  Carlyle  in  especial  being  deeply  indebted  to  it. 
His  life  of  Schiller  was  praised  by  Goethe,  and  his 
translations  of  Wilhelm  Meister  in  1824  and  his 
specimens  of  German  Romance  (1827)  show  the 
direction  in  which  his  mind  was  at  work,  and  the 
influences  which  formed  his  character.  His  later 
work  carried  him  into  other  fields  and  his  Romantic 
Puritanism  became  one  of  the  primary  forces  of  the 
Middle  Victorian  Era. 

Tennyson. — With  Shelley  and  Keats  the  produc- 
tion of  fine  poetry  ceased  till  Tennyson  came  to  his 
own  with  the  publication  of  two  volumes  of  his  Poems 
in  1 842.  Here  he  is  at  the  high-water  mark  of  inspira- 
tion. The  music  of  his  verse,  the  homely  simplicity  and 
tenderness  of  his  language,  the  nobility  and  aloofness 
of  his  themes  produced  an  extraordinary  effect  on  his 
time,  deprived  for  years  of  the  stimulus  of  great 
poetry.  "  The  Princess  "  and  "  In  Memoriam  " 
served  to  mark  the  turning-point  of  his  career,  and 
"Maud"  in  1855  was  the  last  work  of  Tennyson's 
that  mattered.  Then  came  the  transition  into  the 
"  Idylls  of  the  King,"  where  romance  was  definitely 
abandoned  for  the  presentment  in  verse  of  the  ideal 
Englishman  of  the  sixties.  Such  masterpieces  as  "  The 
Lotos  Eaters,"  "  The  Lady  of  Shalott,"   the  "  Morte 


INTRODUCTION  ^ 

d'Arthur,"  "  Sir  Galahad,"  "  Oriana,"  were  not  easily 
repeated.  Canon  Dixon  gives  a  vivid  account  of  the 
influence  of  Tennyson  on  the  youth  of  his  time,  and 
more  especially  of  Morris's  attitude  towards  him,  one 
of  "  defiant  admiration."  "  We  all  had  the  feeling 
that  after  Tennyson  no  farther  development  was 
possible,  we  were  at  the  end  of  all  things  in  poetry." 
Ruskin. — The  other  great  force  of  the  early  fifties 
was  John  Ruskin.  Scott  had  attracted  him  to  the 
Middle  Age — but  almost  exclusively  on  the  side  of 
the  arts,  with  architecture  as  their  crowning  embodi- 
ment. Carlyle  was  his  teacher,  and  his  first  work  of 
importance,  M<?^^r«  Painters,  appeared  in  1843,  the 
year  of  Carlyle's  Past  and  Present.  The  second 
volume  (1846)  was  devoted  to  medieval  art,  and  in 
1848  appeared  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture.  Three 
years  later  the  first  volume  of  his  greatest  work  The 
Stones  of  Venice  was  published,  follov/ed  in  1853  by 
the  second  and  third.  He  then  returned  to  the 
completion  of  Modern  Painters,  the  third  and 
fourth  volumes  appearing  in  1856.  His  influence  on 
his  time  is  well  described  by  Mr.  Mackail.  "As 
The  Stones  of  Venice  is  Ruskin's  greatest  work,  so  one 
chapter  in  it,  the  sixth  of  the  second  volume,  entitled 
*  On  the  Nature  of  Gothic,'  is  the  central  point  of 


INTRODUCTION 

his  whole  teaching.  With  the  twentieth  chapter  of 
Carlyle's  Sartor  Resartus,  it  is  a  confession  of  faith 
and  a  call  to  the  higher  life  which  may  be  called  the 
most  momentous  utterance  of  their  half-century  of 
continuous  utterance.  In  both  cases  the  appeal  is  not 
to  despair,  but  to  labour  and  hope  ;  in  both  cases  the 
voice  of  God  speaking  through  the  man  was  greater 
than  the  man  himself,  and  the  works  of  later  years 
took  on  them  the  sombre  splendour  of  a  great  tragedy, 
when  the  prophets  outlived  faith  in  their  own 
prophecies."  But  this  time  was  not  in  sight  when 
Morris  and  his  friends  were  in  the  first  enthusiasm  of 
youthful  discipleship. 

Rossetti, — Of  the  more  immediate  personal  in- 
fluence on  the  early  poetry  of  William  Morris,  Rossetti 
is  the  most  important.  Not  that  Morris  copied  him, 
or  even  that  the  verse  of  the  two  poets  is  comparable, 
but  that  certain  elements  in  the  elder  powerfully 
strengthened  and  confirmed  the  bent  of  the  younger 
man.  Rossetti  was  born  in  1828,  and  in  1850  his 
first  poems  appeared,  though  written  three  years 
earlier.  His  youth  had  been  spent  in  an  atmosphere 
of  mysticism,  his  father  being  a  searcher  after  esoteric 
interpretations  of  Dante  and  the  romances  of  chivalry  : 
one  of  his  father's  friends  and  disciples  going  so  far  as 
xxxi 


INTRODUCTION 

to  see  in  the  epic  of  Charlemagne  a  history  of  the 
Aibigensian  Church  Synods,  in  the  knights  pastors,  in 
the  heroines  church  meetings,  and  in  the  impassioned 
love-lyrics  of  the  troubadours,  sermons  disguised  to  pass 
current  in  a  hostile  world  !  Their  folly  had  this  of 
good,  that  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  was  familiar  from 
his  earliest  youth  with  the  romantic  literature  of  the 
Middle  Age,  and  that  the  mysticism  of  his  father 
took  with  him  a  saner  and  deeper  expression.  "  An 
original  and  subtile  beauty  of  execution  expresses  a 
deep  mysticism  of  thought  both  great  in  degree  and 
passionate  in  kind.  Nor  in  him  has  it  any  tendency 
to  lose  itself  amid  allegory  or  abstractions  ;  indeed, 
instead  of  turning  human  life  into  symbols  of  things 
vague  and  not  understood,  it  rather  gives  to  the  very 
symbols  the  personal  life  and  variety  of  mankind. 
None  of  his  poems  is  without  the  circle  of  this 
realizing  mysticism,  which  deals  wonderingly  with  all 
real  things  that  can  have  poetic  life  given  them  by 
passion,  and  refuses  to  have  to  do  with  any  invisible 
things  that  in  the  wide  scope  of  its  imagination 
cannot  be  made  perfectly  distinct  and  poetically  real. 
In  no  poems  is  the  spontaneous  and  habitual  interpre- 
tation of  matter  and  manner,  which  is  the  essence  of 
poetry,  more  complete  than  in  Rossetti's." 


INTRODUCTION 

William  Morris. — William  Morris  was  born 
at  Walthamstow,  March  24,  1834.  -^^  ^  child  his 
taste  for  reading  developed  early.  He  was  deep  in 
the  Waverley  Novels  at  four  years  old,  and  he  never 
lost  the  habit  of  rapid  reading  he  formed  in  his  first 
boyhood.  Mr.  Mackail's  Life  gives  a  full  account  of 
his  surroundings  in  youth  and  early  manhood  which 
may  be  consulted  with  profit.  He  was  an  omnivor- 
ous reader,  revelling  in  wonder-stories  and  tales  of 
adventure.  I  remember  his  disappointment  one  day 
in  the  later  years  of  his  life  when  he  bought  The  Three 
Midshipmen  on  a  railway  journey  and  found  it  a  sort 
of  religious  tract.  But  with  this  he  was  an  ardent 
lover  of  nature  ;  every  bird,  beast,  and  plant  had  a 
name  for  him.  He  never  forgot  what  he  had  once  seen 
or  read,  and  fifty  years  later  he  described  from  memory 
a  church  he  had  visited  only  once  when  he  was  eight 
years  old.  When  at  fourteen  he  went  to  Marlborough 
the  discipline  of  the  school  sat  lightly  on  him  ;  his 
holidays  were  spent  in  exploring  the  country  round, 
and  his  working  days  in  devouring  the  school  library, 
rich  in  archaeology  and  architecture.  After  leaving 
school,  over  a  year  was  spent  in  the  study  of  literature, 
classic  and  modern,  before  going  up  to  Oxford  in 
January  1852. 


INTRODUCTION 

At  Oxford,  1853. — Morris  appears  in  the  pupil- 
book  of  the  tutor  at  Exeter  College  as  "  a  rather 
rough  and  unpolished  youth,  who  exhibited  no  special 
literary  tastes  or  capacity,  but  had  no  difficulty  in 
mastering  the  usual  subjects  of  examination."  Among 
his  fellows  he  was  regarded  at  first,  simply  as  a  very 
pleasant  boy  who  was  fond  of  talking.  But  his  mental 
qualities  soon  came  to  the  front.  "  I  observed,"  says 
Canon  Dixon,  "  how  decisive  he  was,  how  accurate 
without  any  effort  or  formality  :  what  an  extraordin- 
ary power  of  observation  lay  at  the  base  of  many  of 
his  casual  or  incidental  remarks,  and  how  many  things 
he  knew  that  were  quite  out  of  the  way."  The  day 
he  entered  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Burne-Jones, 
his  life-long  friend,  and,  when  they  came  up,  Burne- 
Jones  introduced  him  to  a  small  circle  of  Birmingham 
men  at  Pembroke,  in  whose  society  he  spent  most  of 
his  leisure.  Tennyson  and  Ruskin — the  Ruskin  of 
Modern  Painters — were  the  gods  of  his  idolatry,  till  in 
that  year  the  second  volume  of  The  Stones  of  Venice 
appeared,  and  set  the  seal  on  his  devotion.  With 
his  friend  he  read  through  Neale,  Milman,  the  Acta 
Sanctorum^  and  masses  of  medieval  chronicles  and  Latin 
hymns,  while  Carlyle'sP^//  and  Present  stood  for  absolute 
and  inspired  truth.     Burne-Jones  introduced  him  to 


INTRODUCTION 

Thorpe's  Northern  Mythology^  where  he  first  met 
the  saga-tales  he  was  to  love  so  well.  The  Bodleian 
gave  him  the  opportunity  of  studying  form  and  colour 
in  the  glowing  illuminations  of  the  Middle  Age, 
notably  in  a  splendid  Apocalypse  of  the  thirteenth 
century. 

At  Oxford,  1854-5. — We  owe  to  Canon  Dixon  a 
description  of  the  attitude  of  Morris  to  Tennyson  just 
then  :  "  It  was  one  of  defiant  admiration.  He  per- 
ceived his  limitations,  as  I  think,  in  a  remarkable 
manner  for  a  man  of  twenty  or  so.     He  said  once, 

*  Tennyson's  Sir  Galahad  is  rather  a  mild  youth  ! '  Of 

*  Locksley  Hall '  he  said,  apostrophising  the  hero,  *  My 
dear  fellow,  if  you  are  going  to  make  that  row,  get  out 
of  the  room,  that's  all  ! '  He  perceived  a  certain  rowdy 
or  bullying  element  that  runs  through  much  of 
Tennyson's  work  :  runs  through  *  The  Princess,'  *  Lady 
Clara  Vere  de  Vere,'  and  *  Amphion.'  On  the  other 
hand  he  understood  Tennyson's  greatness  in  a  manner 
that  we  could  not  share.  He  understood  it  as  if  the 
poems  represented  substantial  things  that  were  to  be 
considered  out  of  the  poems  as  well  as  in  them.  Of  the 
worlds  that  Tennyson  opened  in  his  fragments  he 
selected  one,  as  I  think  the  finest  and  most  epical,  for 
special  admiration,  namely,  *  Oriana.'  "     In  the  Long 

XXXV  c 


INTRODUCTION 

Vacation  of  1 854  he  first  went  abroad,  visiting  Belgium 
and  Northern  France.  Here  he  first  saw  Van  Eyck 
and  Memmling,  Amiens,  Beauvais  and  Chartres.  In 
Paris  he  saw  the  Cluny  Museum  and  the  Louvre. 
His  description  of  Rouen  has  been  quoted  elsewhere. 
The  romanticism  of  Fouque  in  Sinntram  and  his  other 
works  gave  a  more  definite  body  and  form  to  his 
thoughts.  The  publication  of  Ruskin's  Edinburgh 
Lectures  taught  the  little  circle  of  friends  of  the  exist- 
ence of  Rossetti,  but  they  knew  nothing  of  his  work. 
That  winter  Morris  wrote  his  first  poem.  It  was 
called  "  The  Willow  and  the  Red  Cliff,"  and  was 
destroyed  in   1858. 

First  Poems. — The  description  of  these  must  be 
read  at  length  in  Mr.  Mackail's  Life,  Canon  Dixon, 
no  mean  poet  himself,  says  of  the  first  :  "  As  he  read 
it,  I  felt  that  it  was  something  the  like  of  which  had 
never  been  heard  before  .  .  .  perfectly  original,  what- 
ever its  value,  and  sounding  truly  striking  and  beauti- 
ful, extremely  decisive  and  powerful  in  action.  .  .  , 
He  reached  his  perfection  at  once,  and  in  my  judg- 
ment he  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  much  exceeded  it 
afterwards.  ...  I  remember  his  remark,  *  Well,  if 
this  is  poetry,  it  is  very  easy  to  write  !'  From  that 
time  onward,  for  a  term  or  two,  he  came  to  my 
xxxvi 


INTRODUCTION 

rooms  almost  every  day  with  a  new  poem  "  (p.  52). 
Specimens  of  these  poems  are  given  by  Mr.  Mackail. 
In  the  summer  of  1855  Morris  began  to  write  prose, 
as  remarkable  as  his  early  poetry,  and  as  beautiful.  But 
other  influences  were  crowding  on  the  little  group  of 
friends.  A  copy  of  the  "  Germ  "  came  into  their 
hands,  and  "  The  Blessed  Damozel  "  and  "  Hand  and 
Soul "  made  them  on  the  instant  ardent  worshippers 
of  Rossetti.  At  the  same  time  Morris  read  Chaucer 
for  the  first  time  with  Burne-Jones.  After  a  summer 
tour  in  France,  the  friends  returned  to  Oxford  eager 
to  join  in  the  movement  at  the  head  of  which  stood 
Carlyle,  Ruskin  and  Tennyson,  and  with  a  plan  for 
a  new  magazine,  which  appeared  during  1856,  at 
Morris's  expense.  In  September  Morris  paid  a  visit 
to  Burne-Jones,  and  there  in  Cornish's  bookshop  he 
was  shown  Malory's  Morte  d" Arthur^  which  he  immedi- 
ately fastened  on.  "  It  at  once  became  for  both  one 
of  their  most  precious  treasures ;  so  precious  that  even 
among  their  intimates  there  was  some  shyness  over  it, 
till  a  year  later  they  heard  Rossetti  speak  of  it  and  the 
Bible  as  the  two  greatest  books  of  the  world,  and 
their  tongues  were  unloosed  by  the  sanction  of  his 
authority"  {Life^  p.  81). 

The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine, 


INTRODUCTION 

J856. — Only  twelve  numbers  of  this  magazine  ap- 
peared, and  to  all  but  one  Morris  was  a  contributor. 
Four  poems  afterwards  included  in  "  The  Defence  of 
Guenevere  "  appear  among  them,  but  the  most  note- 
worthy of  his  contributions  are  some  prose  tales,  and 
his  descriptions  of  Amiens.  In  these  tales  some 
exquisite  fragments   of  lyrics  are  imbedded. 

<*  Christ  keep  the  Hollow  Land 
All  the  summer-tide  ; 
Still  we  cannot  understand 
Where  the  waters  glide  ; 

Only  dimly  seeing  them 

Coldly  slipping  through 
Many  green-lipp'd  cavern-mouths, 

Where  the  hills  are  blue." 

But  while  the  magazine  was  running  its  course,  im- 
portant changes  had  been  brought  about.  Burne- 
Jones  had  seen  and  been  welcomed  by  Rossetti. 
Morris  had  signed  articles  as  an  architect  with  Street, 
meeting  there  Philip  Webb,  to  whom  the  revolution 
in  domestic  architecture  throughout  England  is,  more 
than  to  any  other,  due.  After  Easter,  when  Burne- 
Jones  was  in  London,  Morris  used  to  spend  the  week- 
ends with  him,  and  as  much  as  possible  in  the  com- 
pany of  Rossetti,  till,  in  August,  Street  came  up  to 
London,  and  Morris  with  him.  At  the  end  of  the 
year  he  left  architecture  to  study  painting.     The  next 


INTRODUCTION 

year  was  spent  in  almost  daily  contact  with  Rossetti, 
till  in  the  autumn  of  1857  he  returned  to  Oxford, 
where  he  stayed  for  the  greater  part  of  1858.  His 
favourite  reading  at  the  time  was  Froissart  and  Mon- 
strelet  in  Johnes'  edition  of  Berners'  translation. 

The  Defence  of  Guenevere. — It  was  during 

the  closing  months  of  1857  that  some  of  the  finest 
poems  in  the  book  were  written,  under  the  combined 
influence  of  all  the  feelings  which  could  exalt  a  young 
poet.  **  King  Arthur's  Tomb"  was  first  read  on  October 
30,  1857,  and  the  "Praise  of  my  Lady  "  dates  from 
the  same  period.  The  Froissart  group  were  written  a 
little  later.  Early  in  1858  the  volume  appeared,  a 
little  octavo  of  about  250  pages,  which  seemed  to 
drop  still-born  from  the  press.  Some  few  copies  were 
disposed  of,  but  the  edition  was  not  exhausted  till 
thirteen  years  later.  But  if  no  popular  appreciation 
welcomed  it,  yet  that  select  circle  of  judges  whose 
voices  are  the  ultimate  court  of  final  appeal  in  litera- 
ture felt  that  the  new-comer  had  made  good  his  claim 
to  be  heard — his  work  bore  the  hall-mark  of  beauty 
and  romance.  Swinburne  some  years  later  thus 
summed  up  the  criticism  it  met  with ;  "  Here  and 
there  it  met  with  eager  recognition  and  earnest  ap- 
plause ;  nowhere,  if  I  err  not,  with  just  praise  or 
xxxix 


INTRODUCTION 

blame  worth  heeding.  It  seems  to  have  been  now 
lauded  and  now  decried  as  the  result  and  expression  of 
a  school  rather  than  a  man,  of  a  theory  or  tradition 
rather  than  a  poet  or  student.  Those  who  so  judged 
were  blind  guides.  Such  things  as  were  in  this  book 
are  taught  and  learnt  in  no  school  but  that  of  instinct. 
Upon  no  piece  of  work  in  the  world  was  the  impress 
of  native  character  ever  more  distinctly  stamped,  more 
deeply  branded."  One  phrase  of  an  unfriendly  critic 
lives  in  the  memory — "  things  seen  in  an  atmosphere  of 
Brocken  mist  blended  with  incense  smoke." 

Pater,  Swinburne,  Watts. — Pater's  essay  in 
the  Westminster  Review^  reprinted  in  his  Studies, 
is  familiar  to  every  student  of  modern  literature.  Its 
justness  is  tempered  by  personal  preferences,  and  it 
presents  Morris  too  much  as  one  of  a  school.  Swin- 
burne's essay  in  the  Fortnightly,  as  befits  a  fellow- 
craftsman,  goes  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  He  is 
most  attracted  by  the  Arthurian  poems,  and  in  them 
he  finds  the  faults  of  inexperience,  but  the  excellences 
of  genius.  Guenevere  he  describes  as  a  figure  of 
noble  female  passion,  half  senseless  and  half  personal, 
half  mad  and  half  sane.  Of  "King  Arthur's  Tomb  " 
he  writes  :  "  There  is  scarcely  connection  here,  and 
scarcely  composition.  There  is  hardly  a  trace  of 
xl 


INTRODUCTION 

narrative  power  or  mechanical  arrangement.  There 
is  a  perceptible  want  of  tact  and  practice,  which  leaves 
the  poem  in  parts  indecorous  and  chaotic.  But  where 
among  other  and  older  poets  of  his  time  and  country- 
is  one  comparable  for  perception  and  experience  of 
tragic  truth,  of  subtle  and  noble,  terrible  and  piteous 
things,  where  a  touch  of  passion  at  once  so  broad 
and  so  sure  ?  "  Going  on  to  compare  the  work  with 
Tennyson's  later  poems,  he  adds  :  "  Little  beyond 
dexterity,  a  rare  eloquence,  and  a  laborious  patience 
of  hand  has  been  given  the  one,  or  denied  the  other." 
Mr.  Morris's  muse  may  be  roughly  clad,  "  but  it  is 
better  to  want  clothes  than  limbs." 

Influence  of  other  Poets. — The  direct  influ- 
ence of  four  poets  may  be  readily  traced  in  this 
volume — Tennyson,  Rossetti,  and  the  two  Brownings. 
While  it  is  difficult  to  say  of  any  one  poem  in  the 
book,  **  this  is  Tennyson,"  yet  one  feels  that  he  made 
it  possible.  For  two  years  Tennyson's  Poems  had  been 
almost  the  daily  companion  of  the  circle  of  friends 
at  Oxford.  "  Galahad  "  was  their  text-book,  and  the 
traces  of  that  time  are  visible  throughout  the  work, 
though  Morris's  poems  are  fresher  and  less  conscious 
than  Tennyson's.  The  influence  of  Rossetti  appears 
in  the  choice  of  subjects,  e.g.  "The  Blue  Closet,"  "The 
xll 


INTRODUCTION 

Tune  of  Seven  Towers,"  etc.,  and  in  a  sort  of  intensity 
of  diction  common  to  both,  but  beyond  this  there  is 
little  in  common  ;  the  two  minds  were  essentially 
unlike.  Some  of  the  poems  in  the  book  were  sug- 
gested indeed  by  Rossetti's  water  colours.  Our 
frontispiece  was  the  source  of  "  King  Arthur's 
Tomb,"  and  other  poems  had  a  similar  origin. 
The  two  Brownings  were  perhaps,  as  regards 
poetic  method,  those  who  exercised  most  influence 
upon  him.  At  the  end  of  1855  Men  and  Women 
had  appeared,  and  much  of  Morris's  volume  might 
have  been  printed  as  a  supplement  to  it  :  "  Shameful 
Death,"  "  The  Judgment  of  God,"  and  "Old  Love  " 
are  striking  examples  of  this.  Mrs.  Browning's  is  an 
influence  less  obvious,  but  at  first,  stronger.  When 
Morris  began  to  write  poetry  she  was  at  her  best,  and 
her  faults  were  precisely  those  to  which  he  was  most 
lenient.  We  can  trace  her  spirit  in  the  title-poem  of 
the  book,  and,  with  her  husband's,  in  others  such  as 
'*  The  Haystack  in  the  Floods."  But  with  all  this 
Swinburne's  criticism  remains  :  "  It  needs  no  excep- 
tional acuteness  of  ear  or  eye  to  see  or  hear  that  this 
poet  held  of  none,  stole  from  none,  clung  to  none,  as 
tenant,  or  as  beggar,  or  as  thief.  Not  yet  a  master, 
he  was  assuredly  not  a  pupil." 
xlii 


INTRODUCTION 
The  Sources  of  the   Poems:   Malory. — 

The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  volume  is  medieval, 
some  of  them  are  definitely  Arthurian,  some  are  of 
the  age  of  Froissart — the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  and  some  of  an  age  of  romance  more  in- 
definite even  than  that  of  Arthur,  w^hich  for  the 
purposes  of  illustration  might  well  be  placed  in  the 
early  twelfth  century,  when  the  story  took  shape. 
The  Arthurian  poems  owe  their  being  to  Malory's 
Morte  d^ Arthur,  a  fifteenth-century  compilation  and 
abridgment  of  the  great  cycle  of  the  Graal.  The 
history  of  this  legend  is  still  very  obscure.  It  seems 
to  have  taken  its  rise  from  two  independent  sources, 
the  story  of  Arthur  and  Merlin,  and  the  legend  of 
Joseph  of  Arimathea,  the  reputed  founder  of  Glaston- 
bury, who  preserved  the  sacred  vessel  in  which  Jesus 
Christ  consecrated  the  Last  Supper.  The  two 
legends  touched  each  other  by  the  parallel  between 
the  supernatural  origin  of  Merlin,  devil-born,  with 
the  Incarnation,  and  a  third  story  naturally  grew 
up  to  complete  the  cycle,  that  of  the  Redeemer  of 
the  Graal,  Perceval,  or  Parsifal.  Gauwaine,  King 
Arthur's  nephew,  represented  the  adventurous  knight 
of  romance  in  this  version.  But  this  first  cycle  seems 
not  to  have  attained  wide  popularity  till,  early  in  the 
xiiii 


INTRODUCTION 

reign  of  Henry  II.,  Walter  Map  invented  the  story 
of  Lancelot  and  wrote  his  adventures,  making  him 
the  lover  of  the  queen  and  the  very  perfect  knight — 
a  manly  and  more  constant  Tristan.  No  piece  of 
literary  work  has  had  greater  success.  Within  a  few 
years  the  most  famous  singer  of  the  time  was  able  to 
take  an  incident  of  the  story,  and  in  a  poem  which 
depends  for  its  success  on  the  fact  that  the  audience 
knew  of  Lancelot's  identity  while  the  characters  of 
the  story  were  ignorant  of  it,  wrote  thousands  of  lines 
without  mentioning  his  name,  till  at  the  critical  point 
the  prowess  of  the  hero  brings  the  crowd  to  the  cry 
of  "  It  is  Lancelot  ! "  The  story  penetrated  even 
to  Germany,  where  some  distorted  memory  of  it 
mingled  with  Eastern  folk-tales  in  the  Lanzelet  of 
Ulrich. 

The  vogue  of  Lancelot  led  to  the  formation  of 
a  new  version  of  the  cycle.  Merlin  disappears  from 
the  tale,  and  the  story  of  Vivien  (to  use  Tennyson's 
name  for  her)  was  incorporated  in  it  to  account 
for  him.  Lancelot's  valour  seemed  to  point  him  out 
as  the  knight  of  the  Graal,  but  his  sins  disqualified  him 
for  its  service,  hence  the  birth  of  Galahad,  the  pre- 
destined Graal-knight,  whose  mother  was  a  daughter 
of  the  Guardian  of  the  Graal.  Later  on,  the  legends  of 
xliv 


INTRODUCTION 

Percival  and  Galahad  were  worked  over,  and  two 
additional  romances,  the  Morte  Artur  and  the  Queste 
Sangreal,  were  written.  The  cycle  was  now,  at  the 
end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  complete.  Malory's 
work  is  founded  on  it,  and  on  later  English  versions 
and  incidental  poems.  He  died  in  1471,  and  his 
work  was  printed  by  Caxton  in  1485.  William 
Morris  at  the  time  of  writing  these  poems  often  con- 
sciously and  deliberately  set  on  one  side  Malory.  The 
bringing  of  Guenevere  as  a  bride  by  Lancelot  to  Arthur 
is  his  invention,  the  degradation  of  the  character  of 
Gauwaine  is  founded  on  late  ballad  poetry,  Gauwaine 
appearing  in  Malory  as  a  defender  of  Lancelot  and 
the  Queen  and  a  counsellor  of  patience,  while  other 
Arthurian  characters  lend  their  names  to  the  poems 
without  entering  deeply  into  them.  Galahad  owes 
nearly  as  much  to  Tennyson  as  to  Malory,  but  with 
a  strongly-marked  personal  note,  accentuated  in 
"  The  Chapel   in  Lyoness." 

Froissart. — Jean  Froissart  was  born  at  Valen- 
ciennes in  1338  and  died  about  14 10.  His  first 
appearance  in  public  was  to  serve  as  a  clerk  to  Queen 
Philippa  in  London,  where  he  was  one  of  the  court 
poets.  He  was  already  a  student  of  history,  learning 
here  and  there  how  events  were  shaped  from  the 
xlv 


INTRODUCTION 

mouths  of  persons  who  had  taken  part  in  the  deeds 
of  their  time.  At  Berkeley  he  questions  an  "  ancien 
^cuyer"  on  the  death  of  Edward  II.,  in  Scotland 
he  learns  of  the  Bruce,  he  studies  in  Brittany  the 
true  story  of  the  wars  there.  On  the  death  of 
Philippa  he  returned  to  Hainault,  where  he  remained 
for  some  ten  or  a  dozen  years  writing  the  first  book 
of  his  History,  and  arriving  at  the  preferment  of 
Canon  of  Chimay.  A  second  edition  of  this  book 
was  written  later  under  French  influence,  embodying 
the  stories  of  the  prisoners  at  London  with  King 
John.  Before  1388  his  second  book  was  written, 
and  then  he  set  out  to  learn  from  eye-witnesses  the 
history  of  the  war  in  the  south  of  France.  Every 
one  he  met  furnished  him  with  anecdotes,  whether 
it  be  "  Messire  Espaing  de  Lyon,"  who  for  eight 
days  together  loaded  him  with  stories  which  he  wrote 
down  in  the  evening,  or  Gaston  Phoebus,  or  the 
English  adventurers  at  his  inn,  who  told  him  of  the 
life  of  the  freebooters.  At  last,  after  visiting  Avignon, 
Lyon,  and  Paris,  he  returned  to  Chimay,  having 
spent  on  his  travels  the  equivalent  of  ^^2000,  and 
finishing  his  third  book,  began  the  fourth  (to  which 
he  never  put  the  concluding  strokes),  while  again 
recasting  the  first  book. 

xlvi 


INTRODUCTION 

Froissart's  faults  lie  on  the  surface — he  describes 
his  period  but  does  not  understand  it — but  they  can 
never  destroy  the  pleasure  felt  by  any  reader  of 
imagination  when  turning  his  pages.  The  impres- 
sion of  literal  truth,  even  to  the  words  used,  pro- 
duced by  his  narrative,  testifies  to  a  high  degree 
of  art,  worthy  to  be  named  in  a  breath  with  that 
of  Shakespeare, — witness  Chandos  provoking  the 
Breton,  or  Aymerigot  Marches  regretting  the  good 
old  times, — while  his  matter  has  for  us  the  attraction 
of  an  English  epic — the  epic  of  Cre9y  and  Poitiers. 
Morris's  opinion  of  Froissart,  written  in  later  years, 
may  be  read  in  our  notes  (p.  247). 

No  writer  has  ever  realised  so  completely  as 
William  Morris  in  this  volume  the  ideal  of  chivalry 
which  lay  unconsciously  in  Froissart's  mind  when 
writing.  The  courage,  the  fidelity,  the  courtesy, 
are  all  there,  and  if  one  hesitates  to  put  the  Frois- 
sartian  poems  first  in  one's  estimation,  it  is  because 
of  the  doubt  whether  their  special  excellence  may 
not  be  due  to  an  element  of  analysis  foreign  to  the 
medieval  mind.  Yet  this  applies  only  to  the  longer 
poems,  "  Sir  Peter  Harpdon,"  "  Geffray  Teste  Noire," 
etc.;  the  shorter  ones  are  simple  and  strong,  lacking 
no  quality  of  the  old  ballad  poetry, 
xlvii 


INTRODUCTION 

Poems  of  Fantasy. — It  would  be  useless  to 
seek  for  origins  to  the  poems  which  make  up  this 
third  division  of  the  book.  A  phrase,  a  situation, 
a  picture,  a  verse  of  a  song  germinated  in  the  poet's 
mind,  and  we  have  the  result.  The  discovery  of 
a  more  or  less  exact  analogue  in  the  world's  literature 
would  carry  us  no  further  in  our  enjoyment  of  such 
a  masterpiece  as  "  The  Wind,"  "  Spell-bound,"  or 
"Golden  Wings."  Some  of  them  show  traces  of 
a  reading  of  Grimm,  but  in  the  greater  part  we 
recognise  only  the  rare  power  of  invention  of  a  true 
poet — a  maker.  "  The  Blue  Closet "  was  suggested 
by  a  water-colour  of  Rossetti's,  as  well  as  "  King 
Arthur's  Tomb." 

Later  Poems. — The  next  poem  of  William 
Morris  was  marked  by  a  strange  contrast  of  method 
and  treatment,  "  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason " 
(1867).  The  poet  had  abandoned  all  the  character- 
istics of  his  earlier  volume  and  had  taken  a  longer 
and  deeper  plunge  into  medieval  life  and  literature. 
Unlike  the  "  Guenevere "  volume,  its  success  was 
immediate  and  permanent.  It  was  followed  by 
"The  Earthly  Paradise"  (1868-72),  and  "Love 
is  Enough,"  a  most  lovely  and  delicate  poem. 
"Sigurd  the  Volsung"  (1876),  the  epic  of  the 
xlviii 


INTRODUCTION 

North,  was  his  own  favourite  among  his  poems.  His 
last  volume  of  verse,  "Poems  by  the  Way"  (1891), 
contains  some  very  noble  poems,  returning,  in  a 
certain  sense,  to  the  spirit  of  his  first  volume,  but 
with  marked  difference. 

Prose  Works. — Apart  from  his  translations 
and  some  juvenile  work,  his  first  original  work  in 
prose  was  "  The  Dream  of  John  Ball "  (1886).  One 
knows  not  whether  the  magically  effective  scheme 
of  this  book,  or  its  beautiful  simplicity  of  treatment 
and  language  are  the  more  to  be  admired.  The 
scene  in  the  church  when  the  scholar  of  the  nineteenth 
century  tells  an  intelligible  tale  to  the  priest  of  the 
fourteenth  is  quite  incomparable  to  anything  of  the 
kind  ever  written.  A  later  Utopia,  "  News  from 
Nowhere"  (1891),  the  making  of  bricks  for  a  new 
world  with  nineteenth-century  midden,  charms  even 
the  unconvinced.  A  series  of  prose  romances  dealing 
with  Mr.  Morris's  favourite  world  of  Northern 
antiquity  follow,  from  **  The  House  of  the  Wolfings " 
(1889)  to  "The  Sundering  Flood"  (1896),  of  which 
the  finest  are  "The  Roots  of  the  Mountains"  (1890) 
and  "The  Well  at  the  World's  End"  (1895). 
They  are  quite  unlike  anything  that  has  ever  been 
written,  "a  form  of  literary  art  so  new  that  new 
xiix 


INTRODUCTION 

canons  of  criticism  have  to  be  formulated  and  applied 
to  it."  Their  style  has  been  bitterly  attacked,  "a 
theatrical  prose  which  seems  to  derive  from  nowhere," 
or  from  "Wardour  Street."  But  it  was  deliberate 
and  well-chosen.  His  first  necessity  was  to  create  his 
atmosphere,  to  prepare  the  mind  for  strange  happen- 
ings and  unaccustomed  surroundings,  and  for  this  the 
use  of  archaic  words  and  old-world  phrases  was  the 
readiest  means. 

His  life,  1861-96. — The  main  facts  of  William 
Morris's  life  lie  on  the  surface.  In  1861  the 
famous  firm  of  Morris,  Marshall,  Faulkner,  and  Co. 
came  into  existence,  which  has  revolutionised  the 
whole  domestic  decoration  of  England.  Philip 
Webb,  Burne-Jones,  Ford  Madox  Brown,  and 
Rossetti  were  the  other  partners.  In  connection 
with  this  firm,  and  when  it  dissolved  in  1875,  with 
its  successor,  his  life-work  was  done.  His  visits  to 
Iceland  (1871  and  1873)  lie  at  the  root  of  much 
of  his  later  literary  work.  In  1877  he  founded 
the  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Ancient  Buildings, 
still  happily  vigorous,  and  in  1883  he  joined  the 
Socialist  movement.  The  foundation  of  the 
Kelmscott  Press  in  1891  was  the  last  work  of  his 
life,  and  when  he  died  in  October  1896,  its  most 
1 


INTRODUCTION 


magnificent  production,    The  Kelmscott  Chaucer,  had 
just  appeared. 

The  Progress  of  the  Romantic  Revival— 

Ossian  .....  1762 

Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry      .  1765 

Chatter  ton  (Rowley  Poems)    .  .  ^777 

Lyrical  Ballads      .  .  .  .  1798 

Scott  :  Lay  of  the  Last  Mi^istrel       .  1805 

Tennyson  :  Poems         .  .  .  1842 

Carlyle  :  Past  and  Present       .  .  1843 

Rossetti  :  Germ    .  .  .  .  1850 

Knskin  :  Stones  of  Fenice  .         .  185  1-3 

Defence  of  Guenevere      .  .  .  1858 

The  life  of  William  Morris  has  been  written  by 
Mr.  Mackail,  2  vols.,  1899,  and  the  history  of  the 
Romantic  Movement  of  the  nineteenth  century  has 
been  traced  at  length  by  Mr.  Watts-Dunton  in 
Chambers'  Encyclopedia  of  English  Literature^  Vol.  III. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  DANTE 
GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  PAINTER 
I     DEDICATE     THESE     POEMS 


liii 


rUE   DEFENCE    OF   GUENEVERE  . 

KING  ARTHURS    TOMB 

SIR    GALAHADy  A    CHRISTMAS   MTSTERT 

THE   CHAPEL   IN  LTONESS       , 

SIR   PETER   HARPDON'S   END 

RAPUNZEL  .... 

CONCERNING    GEFFRAT   TESTE   NOIRE 

A    GOOD   KNIGHT  IN  PRISON. 

OLD   LOVE       .... 

THE    GILLIFLOWER    OF  GOLD 

SHAMEFUL   DEATH. 

THE   EVE    OF  CRECT      .  .  ^ 

THE   JUDGMENT   OF   GOD  . 

THE   LITTLE    TOWER    . 

THE   SAILING    OF   THE   SWORD    . 

SPELL-BOUND        .... 

THE    WIND     .... 

THE  BLUE   CLOSET 

Iv 


19 

41 

55 

63 

109 

133 

H3 

150 

154 
157 
160 
163 
167 
171 
175 
180 
186 


PAGE 

THE    TUNE    OF  SEVEN   TOfTERS  .             .  .191 

GOLDEN  PTINGS  ,             .             .             .  .194 

THE  HATSTACK  IN   THE   FLOODS           .  .     206 

TJVO   RED   ROSES   ACROSS    THE   MOON  .           214 

WELL  AND   RIVER      .             .             .             .  .216 

RIDING    TOGETHER          .             .             .  .           221 

FATHER   JOHN'S   fVAR-SONG          .             .  .224 

SIR   GILES'    WAR-SONG.             .             .  .           227 

NEAR  AVALON 229 


PRAISE   OF  MT  LADT 
SUMMER  DAWN       . 


NOTES 


230 
235 


IN  PRISON  .....  236 


239 


INDEX 253 


Ivi 


THE   DEFENCE  OF  GUENEVERE 


THE   DEFENCE   OF    GUENEVERE 

BUT,  knowing  now  that  they  would  have  her  speak, 
She  threw  her  wet  hair  backward  from  her  brow 
Her  hand  close  to  her  mouth  touching  her  cheek, 

As  though  she  had  had  there  a  shameful  blow, 
And  feeling  it  shameful  to  feel  ought  but  shame 
All  through  her  heart,  yet  felt  her  cheek  burned  so. 

She  must  a  little  touch  it ;  like  one  lame 

She  walked  away  from  Gauwaine,  with  her  head 

Still  lifted  up ;  and  on  her  cheek  of  flame 

The  tears  dried  quick  ;   she  stopped  at  last  and  said  : 
"  O  knights  and  lords,  it  seems  but  little  skill 
To  talk  of  well-known  things  past  now  and  dead. 

"  God  wot  I  ought  to  say,  I  have  done  ill, 

And  pray  you  all  forgiveness  heartily  ! 

Because  you  must  be  right — such  great  lords — still 


"  Listen,  suppose  your  tilne  were  come  to  die, 
And  you  were  quite  alone  and  very  weak ; 
Yea,  laid  a  dying  while  very  mightily 

"  The  wind  was  ruffling  up  the  narrow  streak 
Of  river  through  your  broad  lands  running  well : 
Suppose  a  hush  should  come,  then  some  one  speak 

"  *  One  of  these  cloths  is  heaven,  and  one  is  hell. 
Now  choose  one  cloth  for  ever,  which  they  be, 
I  will  not  tell  you,  you  must  somehow  tell 

"  *  Of  your  own  strength  and  mightiness  ;  here,  see  !  ' 
Yea,  yea,  my  lord,  and  you  to  ope  your  eyes. 
At  foot  of  your  familiar  bed  to  see 

**  A  great  God's  angel  standing,  with  such  dyes. 
Not  known  on  earth,  on  his  great  wings,  and  hands. 
Held  out  two  ways,  light  from  the  inner  skies 

"  Showing  him  well,  and  making  his  commands 
Seem  to  be  God's  commands,  moreover,  too. 
Holding  within  his  hands  the  cloths  on  wands ; 

"  And  one  of  these  strange  choosing  cloths  was  blue. 
Wavy  and  long,  and  one  cut  short  and  red ; 
No  man  could  tell  the  better  of  the  two. 


"  After  a  shivering  half-hour  you  said, 

*  God  help !  heaven's  colour,  the  blue ; '  and  he  said,  *  hell.' 
Perhaps  you  then  would  roll  upon  your  bed, 

"  And  cry  to  all  good  men  that  loved  you  well, 

*  Ah  Christ !  if  only  I  had  known,  known,  known  ; ' 
Launcelot  went  away,  then  I  could  tell, 

"  Like  wisest  man  how  all  things  would  be,  moan. 
And  roll  and  hurt  myself,  and  long  to  die. 
And  yet  fear  much  to  die  for  what  was  sown. 

"  Nevertheless  you,  O  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie. 
Whatever  may  have  happened  through  these  years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,  saying  that  you  lie." 

Her  voice  was  low  at  first,  being  full  of  tears. 
But  as  it  cleared,  it  grew  full  loud  and  shrill. 
Growing  a  windy  shriek  in  all  men's  ears, 

A  ringing  in  their  startled  brains,  until 

She  said  that  Gauwaine  lied,  then  her  voice  sunk, 

And  her  great  eyes  began  again  to  fill. 

Though  still  she  stood  right  up,  and  never  shrunk, 
But  spoke  on  bravely,  glorious  lady  fair  ! 
Whatever  tears  her  full  lips  may  have  drunk, 
3 


She  stood,  and  seemed  to  think,  and  wrung  her  hair, 
Spoke  out  at  last  with  no  more  trace  of  shame. 
With  passionate  twisting  of  her  body  there  : 

"  It  chanced  upon  a  day  that  Launcelot  came 
To  dwell  at  Arthur's  court :  at  Christmas-time 
This  happened ;  when  the  heralds  sung  his  name, 

"  *  Son  of  King  Ban  of  Benwick,'  seemed  to  chime 
Along  with  all  the  bells  that  rang  that  day. 
O'er  the  white  roofs,  with  little  change  of  rhyme. 

**  Christmas  and  whitened  winter  passed  away, 
And  over  me  the  April  sunshine  came. 
Made  very  awful  with  black  hail-clouds,  yea 

"  And  in  the  Summer  I  grew  white  with  flame. 
And  bowed  my  head  down — Autumn,  and  the  sick 
Sure  knowledge  things  would  never  be  the  same, 

"  However  often  Spring  might  be  most  thick 
Of  blossoms  and  buds,  smote  on  me,  and  I  grew 
Careless  of  most  things,  let  the  clock  tick,  tick, 

"  To  my  unhappy  pulse,  that  beat  right  through 
My  eager  body  ;  while  I  laughed  out  loud. 
And  let  my  lips  curl  up  at  false  or  true, 
4 


"  Seemed  cold  and  shallow  without  any  cloud. 
Behold,  my  judges,  then  the  cloths  were  brought : 
While  I  was  dizzied  thus,  old  thoughts  would  crowd, 

"  Belonging  to  the  time  ere  I  was  bought 
By  Arthur's  great  name  and  his  little  love. 
Must  I  give  up  for  ever  then,  I  thought, 

"  That  which  I  deemed  would  ever  round  me  move 
Glorifying  all  things  ;   for  a  little  word. 
Scarce  ever  meant  at  all,  must  I  now  prove 

"  Stone-cold  for  ever  ?     Pray  you,  does  the  Lord 
Will  that  all  folks  should  be  quite  happy  and  good? 
I  love  God  now  a  little,  if  this  cord 

"  Were  broken,  once  for  all  what  striving  could 
Make  me  love  anything  in  earth  or  heaven. 
So  day  by  day  it  grew,  as  if  one  should 

"  Slip  slowly  down  some  path  worn  smooth  and  even, 

Down  to  a  cool  sea  on  a  summer  day ; 

Yet  still  in  slipping  was  there  some  small  leaven 

"  Of  stretched  hands  catching  small  stones  by  the  way. 
Until  one  surely  reached  the  sea  at  last. 
And  felt  strange  new  joy  as  the  worn  head  lay 
5 


"  Back,  with  the  hair  like  sea- weed  ;  yea  all  past 
Sweat  of  the  forehead,  dryness  of  the  lips. 
Washed  utterly  out  by  the  dear  waves  o'ercast 

"  In  the  lone  sea,  far  off  from  any  ships  ! 
Do  I  not  know  now  of  a  day  in  Spring  ? 
No  minute  of  that  wild  day  ever  slips 

"  From  out  my  memory  ;  I  hear  thrushes  sing, 
And  wheresoever  I  may  be,  straightway 
Thoughts  of  it  all  come  up  with  most  fresh  sting  ; 

"  I  was  half  mad  with  beauty  on  that  day. 

And  went  without  my  ladies  all  alone. 

In  a  quiet  garden  walled  round  every  way  ; 

"  I  was  right  joyful  of  that  wall  of  stone. 
That  shut  the  flowers  and  trees  up  with  the  sky. 
And  trebled  all  the  beauty :  to  the  bone, 

"  Yea  right  through  to  my  heart,  grown  very  shy 
With  weary  thoughts,  it  pierced,  and  made  me  glad  ; 
Exceedingly  glad,  and  I  knew  verily, 

"  A  little  thing  just  then  had  made  me  mad  ; 
I  dared  not  think,  as  I  was  wont  to  do, 
Sometimes,  upon  my  beauty  ;  if  I  had 
6 


**  Held  out  my  long  hand  up  against  the  blue, 
And,  looking  on  the  tenderly  darken'd  fingers. 
Thought  that  by  rights  one  ought  to  see  quite  through, 

"  There,  see  you,  where  the  soft  still  light  yet  lingers. 
Round  by  the  edges  ;   what  should  I  have  done. 
If  this  had  joined  with  yellow  spotted  singers, 

"  And  startling  green  drawn  upward  by  the  sun  ? 
But  shouting,  loosed  out,  see  now  !   all  my  hair, 
And  trancedly  stood  watching  the  west  wind  run 

"  With  faintest  half-heard  breathing  sound — why  there 
I  lose  my  head  e'en  now  in  doing  this ; 
But  shortly  listen — In  that  garden  fair 

"  Came  Launcelot  walking  ;  this  is  true,  the  kiss 
Wherewith  we  kissed  in  meeting  that  spring  day, 
I  scarce  dare  talk  of  the  remember'd  bliss, 

"  When  both  our  mouths  went  wandering  in  one  way, 
And  aching  sorely,  met  among  the  leaves  ; 
Our  hands  being  left  behind  strained  far  away. 

"  Never  within  a  yard  of  my  bright  sleeves 
Had  Launcelot  come  before — and  now,  so  nigh  ! 
After  that  day  why  is  it  Guenevere  grieves  ? 
7 


"  Nevertheless  you,  O  Sir  Gauwaine,  He, 
Whatever  happened  on  through  all  those  years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,  saying  that  you  lie. 

"  Being  such  a  lady  could  I  weep  these  tears 
If  this  were  true  ?  A  great  queen  such  as  I 
Having  sinn'd  this  way,  straight  her  conscience  sears  ; 

"  And  afterwards  she  liveth  hatefully. 
Slaying  and  poisoning,  certes  never  weeps, — 
Gauwaine,  be  friends  now,  speak  me  lovingly. 

"  Do  I  not  see  how  God's  dear  pity  creeps 

All  through  your  frame,  and  trembles  in  your  mouth  ? 

Remember  in  what  grave  your  mother  sleeps, 

"  Buried  in  some  place  far  down  in  the  south. 
Men  are  forgetting  as  I  speak  to  you ; 
By  her  head  sever'd  in  that  awful  drouth 

**  Of  pity  that  drew  Agravaine's  fell  blow, 
I  pray  your  pity  !  let  me  not  scream  out 
For  ever  after,  when  the  shrill  winds  blow 

"  Through  half  your  castle-locks  !  let  me  not  shout 
For  ever  after  in  the  winter  night 
When  you  ride  out  alone  !   in  battle-rout 
8 


**  Let  not  my  rusting  tears  make  your  sword  light ! 
Ah  !   God  of  mercy  how  he  turns  away  ! 
So,  ever  must  I  dress  me  to  the  fight, 

"  So — let  God's  justice  work  !   Gauwaine,  I  say, 
See  me  hew  down  your  proofs :  yea  all  men  know 
Even  as  you  said  how  Mellyagraunce  one  day, 

"One  bitter  day  in  la  Fausse  Garde,  for  so 

All  good  knights  held  it  after,  saw — 

Yea,  sirs,  by  cursed  unknightly  outrage  ;  though 

"  You,  Gauwaine,  held  his  word  without  a  flaw. 
This  Mellyagraunce  saw  blood  upon  my  bed — 
Whose  blood  then  pray  you  ?  is  there  any  law 

"  To  make  a  queen  say  why  some  spots  of  red 

Lie  on  her  coverlet  ?  or  will  you  say, 

*  Your  hands  are  white,  lady,  as  when  you  wed, 

"*  Where  did  you  bleed?'  and  must  I  stammer  out — 'Nay, 

I  blush  indeed,  fair  lord,  only  to  rend 

My  sleeve  up  to  my  shoulder,  where  there  lay 

"  '  A  knife-point  last  night :  '  so  must  I  defend 
The  honour  of  the  lady  Guenevere  ? 
Not  so,  fair  lords,  even  if  the  world  should  end 
9 


"  This  very  day,  and  you  were  judges  here 
Instead  of  God.     Did  you  see  Mellyagraunce 
When  Launcelot  stood  by  him  ?  what  white  fear 

"  Curdled  his  blood,  and  how  his  teeth  did  dance, 
His  side  sink  in  ?  as  my  knight  cried  and  said, 
*  Slayer  of  unarm'd  men,  here  is  a  chance ! 

"  *  Setter  of  traps,  I  pray  you  guard  your  head, 
By  God  I  am  so  glad  to  fight  with  you. 
Stripper  of  ladies,  that  my  hand  feels  lead 

"  *  For  driving  weight ;   hurrah  now  !   draw  and  do. 
For  all  my  wounds  are  moving  in  my  beast, 
And  I  am  getting  mad  with  waiting  so.' 

"  He  struck  his  hands  together  o'er  the  beast. 
Who  fell  down  fiat,  and  grovell'd  at  his  feet. 
And  groan'd  at  being  slain  so  young — '  at  least.' 

"  My  knight  said,  *  Rise  you,  sir,  who  are  so  fieet 
At  catching  ladies,  half-arm'd  will  I  fight. 
My  left  side  all  uncovered ! '  then  I  weet, 

"  Up  sprang  Sir  Mellyagraunce  with  great  delight 
Upon  his  knave's  face ;  not  until  just  then 
Did  I  quite  hate  him,  as  I  saw  my  knight 


"  Along  the  lists  look  to  my  stake  and  pen 
With  such  a  joyous  smile,  it  made  me  sigh 
From  agony  beneath  my  waist- chain,  when 

"  The  fight  began,  and  to  me  they  drew  nigh  ; 
Ever  Sir  Launcelot  kept  him  on  the  right, 
And  traversed  warily,  and  ever  high 

"  And  fast  leapt  caitiff's  sword,  until  my  knight 
Sudden  threw  up  his  sword  to  his  left  hand, 
Caught  it,  and  swung  it ;  that  was  all  the  fight. 

**  Except  a  spout  of  blood  on  the  hot  land ; 

For  it  was  hottest  summer  ;   and  I  know 

I  wonder'd  how  the  fire,  while  I  should  stand, 

"  And  burn,  against  the  heat,  would  quiver  so. 
Yards  above  my  head ;  thus  these  matters  went ; 
Which  things  were  only  warnings  of  the  woe 

"  That  fell  on  me.     Yet  Mellyagraunce  was  shent. 
For  Mellyagraunce  had  fought  against  the  Lord ; 
Therefore,  my  lords,  take  heed  lest  you  be  blent 

"  With  all  this  wickedness  ;   say  no  rash  word 
Against  me,  being  so  beautiful ;  my  eyes. 
Wept  all  away  to  grey,  may  bring  some  sword 


"  To  drown  you  in  your  blood ;  see  my  breast  rise, 
Like  waves  of  purple  sea,  as  here  I  stand  ; 
And  how  my  arms  are  moved  in  wonderful  wise, 

"  Yea  also  at  my  full  heart's  strong  command. 
See  through  my  long  throat  how  the  words  go  up 
In  ripples  to  my  mouth  ;  how  in  my  hand 

"  The  shadow  lies  like  wine  within  a  cup 
Of  marvellously  coloured  gold  ;  yea  now 
This  little  wind  is  rising,  look  you  up, 

"  And  wonder  how  the  light  is  falling  so 
Within  my  moving  tresses  :  will  you  dare. 
When  you  have  looked  a  little  on  my  brow, 

"  To  say  this  thing  is  vile  ?  or  will  you  care 
For  any  plausible  lies  of  cunning  woof. 
When  you  can  see  my  face  with  no  lie  there 

"  For  ever  ?  am  I  not  a  gracious  proof — 

*  But  in  your  chamber  Launcelot  was  found ' — 
Is  there  a  good  knight  then  would  stand  aloof, 

"  When  a  queen  says  with  gentle  queenly  sound  : 

*  O  true  as  steel  come  now  and  talk  with  me, 
I  love  to  see  your  step  upon  the  ground 


**  *  Unwavering,  also  well  I  love  to  see 

That  gracious  smile  light  up  your  face,  and  hear 

Your  wonderful  words,  that  all  mean  verily 

"  *  The  thing  they  seem  to  mean :  good  friend,  so  dear 

To  me  in  everything,  come  here  to-night. 

Or  else  the  hours  will  pass  most  dull  and  drear ; 

**  *  If  you  come  not,  I  fear  this  time  I  might 
Get  thinking  over  much  of  times  gone  by, 
When  I  was  young,  and  green  hope  was  in  sight ; 

**  *  For  no  man  cares  now  to  know  why  I  sigh ; 
And  no  man  comes  to  sing  me  pleasant  songs, 
Nor  any  brings  me  the  sweet  flowers  that  lie 

"  *  So  thick  in  the  gardens  ;  therefore  one  so  longs 
To  see  you,  Launcelot ;  that  we  may  be 
Like  children  once  again,  free  from  all  wrongs 

"  *  Just  for  one  night.'     Did  he  not  come  to  me  ? 
What  thing  could  keep  true  Launcelot  away 
If  I  said  *  come  '  ?  there  was  one  less  than  three 

"  In  my  quiet  room  that  night,  and  we  were  gay ; 
Till  sudden  I  rose  up,  weak,  pale,  and  sick. 
Because  a  bawling  broke  our  dream  up,  yea 
13 


"  I  looked  at  Launcelot's  face  and  could  not  speak, 
For  he  looked  helpless  too,  for  a  little  while  ; 
Then  I  remember  how  I  tried  to  shriek, 

"  And  could  not,  but  fell  down ;  from  tile  to  tile 
The  stones  they  threw  up  rattled  o'er  my  head. 
And  made  me  dizzier ;  till  within  a  while 

"  My  maids  were  all  about  me,  and  my  head 
On  Launcelot's  breast  was  being  soothed  away 
From  its  white  chattering,  until  Launcelot  said — 

"  By  God  !   I  will  not  tell  you  more  to-day. 
Judge  any  way  you  will — what  matters  it  ? 
You  know  quite  well  the  story  of  that  fray, 

"  How  Launcelot  stilFd  their  bawling,  the  mad  fit 

That  caught  up  Gauwaine — all,  all,  verily. 

But  just  that  which  would  save  me ;  these  things  flit. 

**  Nevertheless  you,  O  Sir  Gauwaine,  lie. 
Whatever  may  have  happened  these  long  years, 
God  knows  I  speak  truth,  saying  that  you  lie ! 

"  All  I  have  said  is  truth,  by  Christ's  dear  tears." 
She  would  not  speak  another  word,  but  stood 
Turn'd  sideways ;  listening,  like  a  man  who  hears 
M 


His  brother's  trumpet  sounding  through  the  wood 

Of  his  foes'  lances.     She  lean'd  eagerly, 

And  gave  a  slight  spring  sometimes,  as  she  could 

At  last  hear  something  really  ;  joyfully 

Her  cheek  grew  crimson,  as  the  headlong  speed 

Of  the  roan  charger  drew  all  men  to  see, 

The  knight  who  came  was  Launcelot  at  good  need. 


15 


KING  ARTHUR'S  TOMB 


17 


KING   ARTHUR^S   TOMB 

HOT  August  noon — already  on  that  day 
Since  sunrise  through  the  Wiltshire  downs,  most 
sad 
Of  mouth  and  eye,  he  had  gone  leagues  of  way  ; 
Ay  and  by  night,  till  whether  good  or  bad 

He  was,  he  knew  not,  though  he  knew  perchance 
That  he  was  Launcelot,  the  bravest  knight 

Of  all  who  since  the  world  was,  have  borne  lance, 
Or  swung  their  swords  in  wrong  cause  or  in  right. 

Nay,  he  knew  nothing  now,  except  that  where 

The  Glastonbury  gilded  towers  shine, 
A  lady  dwelt,  whose  name  was  Guenevere  ; 

This  he  knew  also ;  that  some  fingers  twine. 

Not  only  in  a  man's  hair,  even  his  heart, 

(Making  him  good  or  bad  I  mean,)  but  in  his  life, 
19 


kies,  earth,  men's  looks  and  deeds,  all  that  has  part. 
Not  being  ourselves,  in  that  half-sleep,  half-strife, 

( Strange  sleep,  strange  strife,)  that  men  call  living  ;  so 
Was  Launcelot  most  glad  when  the  moon  rose. 

Because  it  brought  new  memories  of  her — "  Lo, 
Between  the  trees  a  large  moon,  the  wind  lows 

"  Not  loud,  but  as  a  cow  begins  to  low. 

Wishing  for  strength  to  make  the  herdsman  hear : 

The  ripe  corn  gathereth  dew ;  yea,  long  ago. 
In  the  old  garden  life,  my  Guenevere 

"  Loved  to  sit  still  among  the  flowers,  till  night 
Had  quite  come  on,  hair  loosen'd,  for  she  said. 

Smiling  like  heaven,  that  its  fairness  might 
Draw  up  the  wind  sooner  to  cool  her  head. 

"  Now  while  I  ride  how  quick  the  moon  gets  small, 

As  it  did  then — I  tell  myself  a  tale 
That  will  not  last  beyond  the  whitewashed  wall. 

Thoughts  of  some  joust  must  help  me  through  the  vale, 

"  Keep  this  till  after — How  Sir  Gareth  ran 

A  good  course  that  day  under  my  Queen's  eyes. 

And  how  she  sway'd  laughing  at  Dinadan — 
No — back  again,  the  other  thoughts  will  rise. 


"  And  yet  I  think  so  fast  'twill  end  right  soon — 

Verily  then  I  think,  that  Guenevere, 
Made  sad  by  dew  and  wind,  and  tree-barred  moon, 

Did  love  me  more  than  ever,  was  more  dear 

**  To  me  than  ever,  she  would  let  me  lie 

And  kiss  her  feet,  or,  if  I  sat  behind, 
Would  drop  her  hand  and  arm  most  tenderly. 

And  touch  my  mouth.     And  she  would  let  me  wind 

"  Her  hair  around  my  neck,  so  that  it  fell 
Upon  my  red  robe,  strange  in  the  twilight 

With  many  unnamed  colours,  till  the  bell 
Of  her  mouth  on  my  cheek  sent  a  delight 

**  Through  all  my  ways  of  being  ;  like  the  stroke 
Wherewith  God  threw  all  men  upon  the  face 

When  he  took  Enoch,  and  when  Enoch  woke 
With  a  changed  body  in  the  happy  place. 

"  Once,  I  remember,  as  I  sat  beside, 

She  turn'd  a  little,  and  laid  back  her  head. 

And  slept  upon  my  breast :   I  almost  died 

In  those  night-watches  with  my  love  and  dread. 

*'  There  lily-like  she  bow'd  her  head  and  slept. 
And  I  breathed  low,  and  did  not  dare  to  move. 


But  sat  and  quiver'd  inwardly,  thoughts  crept, 
And  frightened  me  with  pulses  of  my  Love. 

"  The  stars  shone  out  above  the  doubtful  green 
Of  her  boddice,  in  the  green  sky  overhead ; 

Pale  in  the  green  sky  were  the  stars  I  ween. 
Because  the  moon  shone  like  a  star  she  shed 

"  When  she  dwelt  up  in  heaven  a  while  ago. 

And  ruled  all  things  but  God  :  the  night  went  on. 

The  wind  grew  cold,  and  the  white  moon  grew  low. 
One  hand  had  fallen  down,  and  now  lay  on 

"  My  cold  stiff  palm  ;  there  were  no  colours  then 

For  near  an  hour,  and  I  fell  asleep 
In  spite  of  all  my  striving,  even  when 

I  held  her  whose  name-letters  make  me  leap. 

**  I  did  not  sleep  long,  feeling  that  in  sleep 
I  did  some  loved  one  wrong,  so  that  the  sun 

Had  only  just  arisen  from  the  deep 

Still  land  of  colours,  when  before  me  one 

"  Stood  whom  I  knew,  but  scarcely  dared  to  touch, 
She  seemed  to  have  changed  so  in  the  night ; 

Moreover  she  held  scarlet  lilies,  such 

As  Maiden  Margaret  bears  upon  the  light 


"Of  the  great  church  walls,  natheless  did  I  walk 
Through  the  fresh  wet  woods,  and  the  wheat  that  morn, 

Touching  her  hair  and  hand  and  mouth,  and  talk 
Of  love  we  held,  nigh  hid  among  the  corn. 

"  Back  to  the  palace,  ere  the  sun  grew  high, 
We  went,  and  in  a  cool  green  room  all  day 

I  gazed  upon  the  arras  giddily, 

Where  the  wind  set  the  silken  kings  a-sway. 

"  I  could  not  hold  her  hand,  or  see  her  face ; 

For  which  may  God  forgive  me !  but  I  think. 
Howsoever,  that  she  was  not  in  that  place." 

These  memories  Launcelot  was  quick  to  drink  ; 

And  when  these  fell,  some  paces  past  the  wall, 
There  rose  yet  others,  but  they  wearied  more, 

And  tasted  not  so  sweet ;  they  did  not  fall 

So  soon,  but  vaguely  wrenched  his  strained  heart  sore 

In  shadowy  slipping  from  his  grasp  ;  these  gone, 
A  longing  followed  ;  if  he  might  but  touch 

That  Guenevere  at  once  !  Still  night,  the  lone 
Grey  horse's  head  before  him  vex'd  him  much, 

In  steady  nodding  over  the  grey  road — 

Still  night,  and  night,  and  night,  and  emptied  heart 
^3. 


Of  any  stories  ;  what  a  dismal  load 

Time  grew  at  last,  yea,  when  the  night  did  part, 

And  let  the  sun  flame  over  all,  still  there 

The  horse's  grey  ears  turn'd  this  way  and  that, 

And  still  he  watch'd  them  twitching  in  the  glare 
Of  the  morning  sun,  behind  them  still  he  sat, 

Quite  wearied  out  with  all  the  wretched  night, 

Until  about  the  dustiest  of  the  day. 
On  the  last  down's  brow  he  drew  his  rein  in  sight 

Of  the  Glastonbury  roofs  that  choke  the  way. 

And  he  was  now  quite  giddy  as  before. 

When  she  slept  by  him,  tired  out  and  her  hair 

Was  mingled  with  the  rushes  on  the  floor. 
And  he,  being  tired  too,  was  scarce  aware 

Of  her  presence ;  yet  as  he  sat  and  gazed, 
A  shiver  ran  throughout  him,  and  his  breath 

Came  slower,  he  seem'd  suddenly  amazed. 

As  though  he  had  not  heard  of  Arthur's  death. 

This  for  a  moment  only,  presently 

He  rode  on  giddy  still,  until  he  reach'd 

A  place  of  apple-trees,  by  the  thorn-tree 

Wherefrom  St.  Joseph  in  the  days  past  preached. 

24 


Dazed  there  he  laid  his  head  upon  a  tomb, 
Not  knowing  it  was  Arthur's,  at  which  sight 

One  of  her  maidens  told  her,  "  he  is  come," 
And  she  went  forth  to  meet  him  ;  yet  a  blight 

Had  settled  on  her,  all  her  robes  were  black. 
With  a  long  white  veil  only  ;  she  went  slow, 

As  one  walks  to  be  slain,  her  eyes  did  lack 
Half  her  old  glory,  yea,  alas  !   the  glow 

Had  left  her  face  and  hands ;  this  was  because 
As  she  lay  last  night  on  her  purple  bed. 

Wishing  for  morning,  grudging  every  pause 

Of  the  palace  clocks,  until  that  Launcelot's  head 

Should  lie  on  her  breast,  with  all  her  golden  hair 
Each  side — when  suddenly  the  thing  grew  drear. 

In  morning  twilight,  when  the  grey  downs  bare 
Grew  into  lumps  of  sin  to  Guenevere. 

At  first  she  said  no  word,  but  lay  quite  still. 
Only  her  mouth  was  open,  and  her  eyes 

Gazed  wretchedly  about  from  hill  to  hill ; 

As  though  she  asked,  not  with  so  much  surprise 

As  tired  disgust,  what  made  them  stand  up  there 
So  cold  and  grey.     After,  a  spasm  took 
25 


Her  face,  and  all  her  frame,  she  caught  her  hair, 
All  her  hair,  in  both  hands,  terribly  she  shook. 

And  rose  till  she  was  sitting  in  the  bed. 

Set  her  teeth  hard,  and  shut  her  eyes  and  seem'd 

As  though  she  would  have  torn  it  from  her  head, 
Natheless  she  dropp'd  it,  lay  down,  as  she  deem'd 

It  mattered  not  whatever  she  might  do — 
O  Lord  Christ !  pity  on  her  ghastly  face  ! 

Those  dismal  hours  while  the  cloudless  blue 
Drew  the  sun  higher  — He  did  give  her  grace ; 

Because  at  last  she  rose  up  from  her  bed. 
And  put  her  raiment  on,  and  knelt  before 

The  blessed  rood,  and  with  her  dry  lips  said. 
Muttering  the  words  against  the  marble  floor : 

"Unless  you  pardon,  v/hat  shall  I  do,  Lord, 
But  go  to  hell  ?  and  there  see  day  by  day 

Foul  deed  on  deed,  hear  foulest  word  on  word, 
For  ever  and  ever,  such  as  on  the  way 

"  To  Camelot  I  heard  once  from  a  churl, 
That  curled  me  up  upon  my  jennet's  neck 

With  bitter  shame ;  how  then.  Lord,  should  I  curl 
For  ages  and  for  ages  ?  dost  Thou  reck 
z6 


"  That  I  am  beautiful,  Lord,  even  as  You 
And  Your  dear  Mother  ?  why  did  I  forget 

You  were  so  beautiful,  and  good,  and  true, 
That  You  loved  me  so,  Guenevere  ?     O  yet 

"  If  even  I  go  hell,  I  cannot  choose 

But  love  You,  Christ,  yea,  though  I  cannot  keep 
From  loving  Launcelot ;   O  Christ !   must  I  lose 

My  own  heart's  love  ?  see,  though  I  cannot  weep, 

"  Yet  am  I  very  sorry  for  my  sin  ; 

Moreover,  Christ,  I  cannot  bear  that  hell, 
I  am  most  fain  to  love  You,  and  to  win 

A  place  in  heaven  some  time — I  cannot  tell — 

"  Speak  to  me,  Christ !   I  kiss,  kiss,  kiss  Your  feet ; 

Ah  !  now  I  weep  !  " — The  maid  said,  "By  the  tomb 
He  waiteth  for  you,  lady,"  coming  fleet. 

Not  knowing  what  woe  filled  up  all  the  room. 

So  Guenevere  rose  and  went  to  meet  him  there. 

He  did  not  hear  her  coming,  as  he  lay 
On  Arthur's  head,  till  some  of  her  long  hair 

Brush'd  on  the  new-cut  stone — "  Well  done !   to  pray 

"  For  Arthur,  my  dear  lord,  the  greatest  king 
That  ever  lived."     "  Guenevere  !  Guenevere ! 
»7 


Do  you  not  know  me,  are  you  gone  mad  ?  fling 
Your  arms  and  hair  about  me,  lest  I  fear 

'*  You  are  not  Guenevere,  but  some  other  thing." 
**  Pray  you  forgive  me,  fair  lord  Launcelot ! 

I  am  not  mad,  but  I  am  sick  ;  they  cling, 
God's  curses,  unto  such  as  I  am  ;  not 

"Ever  again  shall  we  twine  arms  and  lips." 
"  Yea,  she  is  mad :  Thy  heavy  law,  O  Lord, 

Is  very  tight  about  her  now,  and  grips 
Her  poor  heart,  so  that  no  right  word 

"  Can  reach  her  mouth  ;  so.  Lord,  forgive  her  now. 
That  she  not  knowing  what  she  does,  being  mad. 

Kills  me  in  this  way — Guenevere,  bend  low 

And  kiss  me  once  !  for  God's  love  kiss  me  !   sad 

*<  Though  your  face  is,  you  look  much  kinder  now  ; 

Yea  once,  once  for  the  last  time  kiss  me,  lest  I  die." 
"  Christ !  my  hot  lips  are  very  near  his  brow, 

Help  me  to  save  his  soul ! — Yea,  verily, 

"Across  my  husband's  head,  fair  Launcelot ! 

Fair  serpent  mark'd  with  V  upon  the  head  ! 
This  thing  we  did  while  yet  he  was  alive. 

Why  not,  O  twisting  knight,  now  he  is  dead  ? 
28 


"  Yea,  shake  !   shake  now  and  shiver  !   if  you  can 

Remember  anything  for  agony, 
Pray  you  remember  how  when  the  wind  ran 

One  cool  spring  evening  through  fair  aspen-tree, 

"  And  elm  and  oak  about  the  palace  there, 
The  king  came  back  from  battle,  and  I  stood 

To  meet  him,  with  my  ladies,  on  the  stair, 

My  face  made  beautiful  with  my  young  blood." 

"Will  she  lie  now.  Lord  God  ?  "     "  Remember  too, 
Wrung  heart,  how  first  before  the  knights  there  came 

A  royal  bier,  hung  round  with  green  and  blue. 
About  shone  great  tapers  with  sick  flame. 

"And  thereupon  Lucius,  the  Emperor, 

Lay  royal-robed,  but  stone-cold  now  and  dead. 

Not  able  to  hold  sword  or  sceptre  more. 

But  not  quite  grim ;   because  his  cloven  head 

"  Bore  no  marks  now  of  Launcelot's  bitter  sword, 
Being  by  embalmers  deftly  solder'd  up ; 

So  still  it  seem'd  the  face  of  a  great  lord. 
Being  mended  as  a  craftsman  mends  a  cup. 

**  Also  the  heralds  sung  rejoicingly 

To  their  long  trumpets ;  <  Fallen  under  shield, 

29 


Here  lieth  Lucius,  King  of  Italy, 

Slain  by  Lord  Launcelot  in  open  field/ 

"  Thereat  the  people  shouted  *  Launcelot !  * 

And  through  the  spears  I  saw  you  drawing  nigh. 

You  and  Lord  Arthur — nay,  I  saw  you  not, 
But  rather  Arthur,  God  would  not  let  die, 

"  I  hoped,  these  many  years,  he  should  grow  great, 
And  in  his  great  arms  still  encircle  me. 

Kissing  my  face,  half  blinded  with  the  heat 
Of  king's  love  for  the  queen  I  used  to  be. 

"  Launcelot,  Launcelot,  why  did  he  take  your  hand. 
When  he  had  kissed  me  in  his  kingly  way  ? 

Saying,  *  This  is  the  knight  whom  all  the  land 
Calls  Arthur's  banner,  sword,  and  shield  to-day ; 

"  *  Cherish  him,  love.'     Why  did  your  long  lips  cleave 
In  such  strange  way  unto  my  fingers  then  ? 

So  eagerly  glad  to  kiss,  so  loath  to  leave 

When  you  rose  up  ?     Why  among  helmed  men 

*'  Could  I  always  tell  you  by  your  long  strong  arms. 
And  sway  like  an  angel's  in  your  saddle  there  ? 

Why  sicken'd  I  so  often  with  alarms 

Over  the  tilt-yard  ?     Why  were  you  more  fair 

30 


"  Than  aspens  in  the  autumn  at  their  best  ? 

Why  did  you  fill  all  lands  with  your  great  fame, 
So  that  Breuse  even,  as  he  rode,  fear'd  lest 

At  turning  of  the  way  your  shield  should  flame  ? 

"  Was  it  nought  then,  my  agony  and  strife  ? 

When  as  day  passed  by  day,  year  after  year, 
I  found  I  could  not  live  a  righteous  life  ? 

Didst  ever  think  that  queens  held  their  truth  dear  ? 

"  O,  but  your  lips  say,  *  Yea,  but  she  was  cold 
Sometimes,  always  uncertain  as  the  spring ; 

When  I  was  sad  she  would  be  overbold. 

Longing  for  kisses ; '  when  war-bells  did  ring, 

"  The  back-toll'd  bells  of  noisy  Camelot " — 
"  Now,  Lord  God,  listen  !  listen,  Guenevere, 

Though  I  am  weak  just  now,  I  think  there's  not 
A  man  who  dares  to  say,  *  You  hated  her, 

"  *  And  left  her  moaning  while  you  fought  your  fill 
In  the  daisied  meadows ; '  lo  you  her  thin  hand. 

That  on  the  carven  stone  can  not  keep  still. 
Because  she  loves  me  against  God's  command, 

"  Has  often  been  quite  wet  with  tear  on  tear. 
Tears  Launcelot  keeps  somewhere,  surely  not 
31 


In  his  own  heart,  perhaps  in  Heaven,  where 
He  will  not  be  these  ages  " — "  Launcelot ! 

"  Loud  lips,  wrung  heart !   I  say,  when  the  bells  rang, 
The  noisy  back-toird  bells  of  Camelot, 

There  were  two  spots  on  earth,  the  thrushes  sang 
In  the  lonely  gardens  where  my  love  was  not, 

"  Where  I  was  almost  weeping ;   I  dared  not 

Weep  quite  in  those  days,  lest  one  maid  should  say. 

In  tittering  whispers  ;  *  Where  is  Launcelot 

To  wipe  with  some  kerchief  those  tears  away  ? ' 

"  Another  answer  sharply  with  brows  knit. 
And  warning  hand  up,  scarcely  lower  though, 

'  You  speak  too  loud,  see  you,  she  heareth  it. 
This  tigress  fair  has  claws,  as  I  well  know, 

"  *  As  Launcelot  knows  too,  the  poor  knight !  well-a-day ! 

Why  met  he  not  with  Iseult  from  the  West, 
Or,  better  still,  Iseult  of  Brittany  ? 

Perchance  indeed  quite  ladyless  were  best.' 

"  Alas,  my  maids,  you  loved  not  overmuch 
Queen  Guenevere,  uncertain  as  sunshine 

In  March ;  forgive  me  !  for  my  sin  being  such. 
About  my  whole  life,  all  my  deeds  did  twine, 
3* 


"  Made  me  quite  wicked  ;  as  I  found  out  then, 
I  think  ;  in  the  lonely  palace,  where  each  morn 

We  went,  my  maids  and  I,  to  say  prayers  when 
They  sang  mass  in  the  chapel  on  the  lawn. 

"And  every  morn  I  scarce  could  pray  at  all, 
For  Launcelot's  red-golden  hair  would  play. 

Instead  of  sunlight,  on  the  painted  wall, 

Mingled  with  dreams  of  what  the  priest  did  say  ; 

**  Grim  curses  out  of  Peter  and  of  Paul ; 

Judging  of  strange  sins  in  Leviticus  ; 
Another  sort  of  writing  on  the  wall. 

Scored  deep  across  the  painted  heads  of  us. 

<*  Christ  sitting  with  the  woman  at  the  well, 

And  Mary  Magdalen  repenting  there, 
Her  dimmed  eyes  scorch'd  and  red  at  sight  of  hell 

So  hardly  scaped,  no  gold  light  on  her  hair. 

"  And  if  the  priest  said  anything  that  seem'd 
To  touch  upon  the  sin  they  said  we  did, — 

(This  in  their  teeth)  they  look'd  as  if  they  deem'd 
That  I  was  spying  what  thoughts  might  be  hid 

*'  Under  green-cover'd  bosoms,  heaving  quick 

Beneath  quick  thoughts  ;  while  they  grew  red  with 
shame, 

33  ^ 


And  gazed  down  at  their  feet — while  I  felt  sick, 
And  almost  shriek'd  if  one  should  call  my  name. 

"  The  thrushes  sang  in  the  lone  garden  there — 

But  where  you  were  the  birds  were  scared  I  trow — 

Clanging  of  arms  about  pavilions  fair, 

Mixed  with  the  knights'  laughs;  there,  as  I  well  know, 

"  Rode  Launcelot,  the  king  of  all  the  band. 
And  scowling  Gauwaine,  like  the  night  in  day. 

And  handsome  Gareth,  with  his  great  white  hand 
Curl'd  round  the  helm-crest,  ere  he  join'd  the  fray ; 

**  And  merry  Dinadan  with  sharp  dark  face. 
All  true  knights  loved  to  see  ;   and  in  the  fight 

Great  Tristram,  and  though  helmed  you  could  trace 
In  all  his  bearing  the  frank  noble  knight ; 

"  And  by  him  Palomydes,  helmet  off. 
He  fought,  his  face  brush'd  by  his  hair. 

Red  heavy  swinging  hair  ;   he  fear'd  a  scoff 

So  overmuch,  though  what  true  knight  would  dare 

"  To  mock  that  face,  fretted  with  useless  care. 

And  bitter  useless  striving  after  love  ? 
O  Palomydes,  with  much  honour  bear 

Beast  Glatysaunt  upon  your  shield,  above 
34 


"  Your  helm  that  hides  the  swinging  of  your  hair, 
And  think  of  Iseult,  as  your  sword  drives  through 

Much  mail  and  plate — O  God,  let  me  be  there 
A  little  time,  as  I  was  long  ago ! 

"  Because  stout  Gareth  lets  his  spear  fall  low, 
Gauwaine,  and  Launcelot,  and  Dinadan 

Are  helm'd  and  waiting  ;   let  the  trumpets  go  ! 
Bend  over,  ladies,  to  see  all  you  can ! 

"Clench  teeth,  dames,  yea,  clasp  hands,  for  Gareth's 
spear 

Throws  Kay  from  out  his  saddle,  like  a  stone 
From  a  castle- window  when  the  foe  draws  near — 

<  Iseult ! ' — Sir  Dinadan  rolleth  overthrown. 

"  *  Iseult ' — again — the  pieces  of  each  spear 
Fly  fathoms  up,  and  both  the  great  steeds  reel ; 

'  Tristram  for  Iseult !  '     <  Iseult '  and  *  Guenevere,' 
The  ladies'  names  bite  verily  like  steel. 

"  They  bite — bite  me.  Lord  God  ! — I  shall  go  mad, 
Or  else  die  kissing  him,  he  is  so  pale. 

He  thinks  me  mad  already,  O  bad  !   bad  ! 
Let  me  lie  down  a  little  while  and  wail." 

1.^  "  No  longer  so,  rise  up,  I  pray  you,  love, 
^m    And  slay  me  really,  then  we  shall  be  heaPd, 
I 


Perchance,  in  the  aftertime  by  God  above." 
"  Banner  of  Arthur — with  black-bended  shield 

"  Sinister-wise  across  the  fair  gold  ground  ! 

Here  let  me  tell  you  what  a  knight  you  are, 
O  sword  and  shield  of  Arthur  !  you  are  found 

A  crooked  sword,  I  think,  that  leaves  a  scar 

"  On  the  bearer's  arm,  so  be  he  thinks  it  straight, 
Twisted  Malay's  crease  beautiful  blue-grey, 

Poison'd  with  sweet  fruit ;  as  he  found  too  late. 
My  husband  Arthur,  on  some  bitter  day  ! 

**  O  sickle  cutting  hemlock  the  day  long  ! 

That  the  husbandman  across  his  shoulder  hangs, 
And,  going  homeward  about  evensong. 

Dies  the  next  morning,  struck  through  by  the  fangs ! 

"  Banner,  and  sword,  and  shield,  you  dare  not  pray  to  die. 
Lest  you  meet  Arthur  in  the  other  world, 

And,  knowing  who  you  are,  he  pass  you  by. 

Taking  short  turns  that  he  may  watch  you  curl'd. 

"  Body  and  face  and  limbs  in  agony. 

Lest  he  weep  presently  and  go  away. 
Saying,  <  I  loved  him  once,'  with  a  sad  sigh — 

Now  I  have  slain  him.  Lord,  let  me  go  too,  I  pray. 

[Launcelot  falls. 
36 


"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not  what  to  do, 

If  I  run  fast  it  is  perchance  that  I 
May  fall  and  stun  myself,  much  better  so, 

Never,  never  again  !  not  even  when  I  die." 

Launcelot,  on  awaking. 

"  I  stretch'd  my  hands  towards  her  and  fell  down. 
How  long  I  lay  in  swoon  I  cannot  tell : 

My  head  and  hands  were  bleeding  from  the  stone, 
When  I  rose  up,  also  I  heard  a  bell." 


SIR     GALAHAD,     A     CHRISTMAS 
MYSTERY 


S9 


SIR   GALAHAD,  A  CHRISTMAS 
MYSTERY 

IT  is  the  longest  night  in  all  the  year, 
Near  on  the  day  when  the  Lord  Christ  was  born ; 
Six  hours  ago  I  came  and  sat  down  here, 
And  ponder'd  sadly,  wearied  and  forlorn. 

The  winter  wind  that  pass'd  the  chapel-door. 
Sang  out  a  moody  tune,  that  went  right  well 

With  mine  own  thoughts :  I  look'd  down  on  the  floor. 
Between  my  feet,  until  I  heard  a  bell 

Sound  a  long  way  off  through  the  forest  deep, 

And  toll  on  steadily  ;  a  drowsiness 
Came  on  me,  so  that  I  fell  half  asleep. 

As  I  sat  there  not  moving  :  less  and  less 

I  saw  the  melted  snow  that  hung  in  beads 
Upon  my  steel-shoes ;  less  and  less  I  saw 
41 


Between  the  tiles  the  bunches  of  small  weeds  : 
Heartless  and  stupid,  with  no  touch  of  awe 

Upon  me,  half- shut  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
I  thought ;  O  !   Galahad,  the  days  go  by. 

Stop  and  cast  up  now  that  which  you  have  found, 
So  sorely  you  have  wrought  and  painfully. 

Night  after  night  your  horse  treads  down  alone 
The  sere  damp  fern,  night  after  night  you  sit 

Holding  the  bridle  like  a  man  of  stone. 

Dismal,  unfriended,  what  thing  comes  of  it. 

And  what  if  Palomydes  also  ride. 

And  over  many  a  mountain  and  bare  heath 

Follow  the  questing  beast  with  none  beside  ? 
Is  he  not  able  still  to  hold  his  breath 

With  thoughts  of  Iseult  ?  doth  he  not  grow  pale 
With  weary  striving,  to  seem  best  of  all 

To  her,  "  as  she  is  best,"  he  saith  ?  to  fail 
Is  nothing  to  him,  he  can  never  fall. 

For  unto  such  a  man  love-sorrow  is 

So  dear  a  thing  unto  his  constant  heart, 

That  even  if  he  never  win  one  kiss, 

Or  touch  from  Iseult,  it  will  never  part. 

42 


And  he  will  never  know  her  to  be  worse 

Than  in  his  happiest  dreams  he  thinks  she  is  : 

Good  knight,  and  faithful,  you  have  'scaped  the  curse 
In  wonderful-wise  ;  you  have  great  store  of  bliss. 

Yea,  what  if  Father  Launcelot  ride  out, 

Can  he  not  think  of  Guenevere's  arms,  round. 

Warm  and  lithe,  about  his  neck,  and  shout 

Till  all  the  place  grows  joyful  with  the  sound  ? 

And  when  he  lists  can  often  see  her  face. 

And  think,  "  Next  month  I  kiss  you,  or  next  week. 

And  still  you  think  of  me  : "  therefore  the  place 
Grows  very  pleasant,  whatsoever  he  seek. 

But  me,  who  ride  alone,  some  carle  shall  find 
Dead  in  my  arms  in  the  half-melted  snow, 

When  all  unkindly  with  the  shifting  wind. 
The  thaw  comes  on  at  Candlemas  :  I  know 

Indeed  that  they  will  say  :  "  This  Galahad 
If  he  had  lived  had  been  a  right  good  knight ; 

Ah  !  poor  chaste  body !  "  but  they  will  be  glad, 
Not  most  alone,  but  all,  when  in  their  sight 

That  very  evening  in  their  scarlet  sleeves 

The  gay-dress'd  minstrels  sing  ;  no  maid  will  talk 
43 


Of  sitting  on  my  tomb,  until  the  leaves, 
Grown  big  upon  the  bushes  of  the  walk, 

East  of  the  Palace-pleasaunce,  make  it  hard 
To  see  the  minster  therefrom  :  well-a-day  ! 

Before  the  trees  by  autumn  were  well  bared, 
I  saw  a  damozel  with  gentle  play, 

Within  that  very  walk  say  last  farewell 
To  her  dear  knight,  just  riding  out  to  find 

(Why  should  I  choke  to  say  it  ?)  the  Sangreal, 
And  their  last  kisses  sunk  into  my  mind, 

Yea,  for  she  stood  lean'd  forward  on  his  breast. 
Rather,  scarce  stood  ;  the  back  of  one  dear  hand. 

That  it  might  well  be  kiss'd,  she  held  and  press'd 
Against  his  lips  ;  long  time  they  stood  there,  fann'd 

By  gentle  gusts  of  quiet  frosty  wind. 

Till  Mador  de  la  porte  a-going  by. 
And  my  own  horsehoofs  roused  them  ;  they  untwined, 

And  parted  like  a  dream.     In  this  way  I, 

With  sleepy  face  bent  to  the  chapel  floor. 

Kept  musing  half  asleep,  till  suddenly 
A  sharp  bell  rang  from  close  beside  the  door. 

And  I  leapt  up  when  something  pass'd  me  by, 
44 


Shrill  ringing  going  with  it,  still  half  blind 

I  staggerM  after,  a  great  sense  of  awe 
At  every  step  kept  gathering  on  my  mind. 

Thereat  I  have  no  marvel,  for  I  saw 

One  sitting  on  the  altar  as  a  throne. 

Whose  face  no  man  could  say  he  did  not  know. 
And  though  the  bell  still  rang,  He  sat  alone. 

With  raiment  half  blood-red,  half  white  as  snow. 

Right  so  I  fell  upon  the  floor  and  knelt, 

Not  as  one  kneels  in  church  when  mass  is  said. 

But  in  a  heap,  quite  nerveless,  for  I  felt 

The  first  time  what  a  thing  was  perfect  dread. 

But  mightily  the  gentle  voice  came  down  : 
"  Rise  up,  and  look  and  listen,  Galahad, 

Good  knight  of  God,  for  you  will  see  no  frown 
Upon  My  face  ;  I  come  to  make  you  glad. 

"For  that  you  say  that  you  are  all  alone, 
I  will  be  with  you  always,  and  fear  not 

You  are  uncared  for,  though  no  maiden  moan 
Above  your  empty  tomb  ;  for  Launcelot, 

"  He  in  good  time  shall  be  My  servant  too. 

Meantime,  take  note  whose  sword  first  made  him 
knight, 

45 


And  who  has  loved  him  alway,  yea,  and  who 
Still  trusts  him  alway,  though  in  all  men's  sight, 

"  He  is  just  what  you  know,  O  Galahad. 

This  love  is  happy  even  as  you  say. 
But  would  you  for  a  little  time  be  glad, 

To  make  Me  sorry  long  day  after  day  ? 

"  Her  warm  arms  round  his  neck  half  throttle  Me, 
The  hot  love-tears  burn  deep  like  spots  of  lead. 

Yea,  and  the  years  pass  quick :  right  dismally 
Will  Launcelot  at  one  time  hang  his  head  ; 

"  Yea,  old  and  shrivelled  he  shall  win  My  love. 

Poor  Palomydes  fretting  out  his  soul ! 
Not  always  is  he  able,  son,  to  move 

His  love,  and  do  it  honour  :  needs  must  roll 

"  The  proudest  destrier  sometimes  in  the  dust. 
And  then  'tis  weary  work ;  he  strives  beside 

Seem  better  than  he  is,  so  that  his  trust 
Is  always  on  what  chances  may  betide ; 

"  And  so  he  wears  away.  My  servant,  too. 

When  all  these  things  are  gone,  and  wretchedly 

He  sits  and  longs  to  moan  for  Iseult,  who 
Is  no  care  now  to  Palomydes :  see, 

46 


*^  O  good  son  Galahad,  upon  this  day, 

Now  even,  all  these  things  are  on  your  side, 

But  these  you  fight  not  for  ;  look  up,  I  say. 
And  see  how  I  can  love  you,  for  no  pride 

**  Closes  your  eyes,  no  vain  lust  keeps  them  down. 

See  now  you  have  Me  always ;  following 
That  holy  vision,  Galahad,  go  on. 

Until  at  last  you  come  to  Me  to  sing 

"  In  Heaven  always,  and  to  walk  around 

The  garden  where  I  am :  "  He  ceased,  my  face 

And  wretched  body  fell  upon  the  ground ; 
And  when  I  look'd  again,  the  holy  place 

Was  empty ;  but  right  so  the  bell  again 
Came  to  the  chapel-door,  there  entered 

Two  angels  first,  in  white,  without  a  stain. 
And  scarlet  wings,  then  after  them  a  bed 

Four  ladies  bore,  and  set  it  down  beneath 
The  very  altar-step,  and  while  for  fear 

I  scarcely  dared  to  move  or  draw  my  breath. 
Those  holy  ladies  gently  came  a-near. 

And  quite  unarm'd  me,  saying  :  "  Galahad, 

Rest  here  awhile  and  sleep,  and  take  no  thought 
47 


Of  any  other  thing  than  being  glad ; 

Hither  the  Sangreal  will  be  shortly  brought, 

"  Yet  must  you  sleep  the  while  it  stayeth  here." 
Right  so  they  went  away,  and  I,  being  weary. 

Slept  long  and  dream'd  of  Heaven  :  the  bell  comes  near, 
I  doubt  it  grows  to  morning.     Miserere  ! 

Enter  Two  Angels  in  white ^  with  scarlet  wings ;  also 
Four  Ladies  in  gowns  of  red  and  green;  also  an 
Angel^  hearing  in  his  hands  a  surcoat  of  white^ 
with  a  red  cross. 

An  Angel. 

O  servant  of  the  high  God,  Galahad ! 

Rise  and  be  arm'd,  the  Sangreal  is  gone  forth 
Through  the  great  forest,  and  you  must  be  had 

Unto  the  sea  that  lieth  on  the  north : 

There  shall  you  find  the  wondrous  ship  wherein 
The  spindles  of  King  Solomon  are  laid. 

And  the  sword  that  no  man  draweth  without  sin. 
But  if  he  be  most  pure  :  and  there  is  stay'd. 

Hard  by.  Sir  Launcelot,  whom  you  will  meet 
In  some  short  space  upon  that  ship :  first,  though, 
48 


Will  come  here  presently  that  lady  sweet, 
Sister  of  Percival,  whom  you  well  know, 

And  with  her  Bors  and  Percival :  stand  now. 
These  ladies  will  to  arm  you. 

First  Lady,  putting  on  the  hauler ke^ 
Galahad, 
That  I  may  stand  so  close  beneath  your  brow, 
I,  Margaret  of  Antioch,  am  glad. 

Second  Lady,  girding  him  with  the  sword. 
That  I  may  stand  and  touch  you  with  my  hand, 
O  Galahad,  I,  Cecily,  am  glad. 

Third  Lady,  buckling  on  the  spurs. 
That  I  may  kneel  while  up  above  you  stand. 

And  gaze  at  me,  O  holy  Galahad, 
I,  Lucy,  am  most  glad. 

Fourth  Lady,  putting  on  the  basnet, 
O  gentle  knight, 
That  you  bow  down  to  us  in  reverence. 
We  are  most  glad,  I,  Katherine,  with  delight 
Must  needs  fall  trembling. 

Angel,  putting  on  the  crossed  surcoat, 

Galahad,  we  go  hence, 
49  E 


For  here,  amid  the  straying  of  the  snow, 
Come  Percival's  sister,  Bors,  and  Percival. 

[The  Four  Ladies  carry  out  the  hedy 
and  all  go  but  Galahad. 

Galahad. 

How  still  and  quiet  everything  seems  now : 

They  come,  too,  for  I  hear  the  horsehoofs  fall. 

Enter  Sir  Bors,  Sir  Percival,  and  his  Sister. 

Fair  friends  and  gentle  lady,  God  you  save  ! 

A  many  marvels  have  been  here  to-night ; 
Tell  me  what  news  of  Launcelot  you  have. 

And  has  God's  body  ever  been  in  sight  ? 

Sir  Bors. 

Why,  as  for  seeing  that  same  holy  thing, 
As  we  were  riding  slowly  side  by  side. 

An  hour  ago,  we  heard  a  sweet  voice  sing. 

And  through  the  bare  twigs  saw  a  great  light  glide, 

With  many-colour'd  raiment,  but  far  off. 

And  so  passed  quickly — from  the  court  nought  good  ; 
Poor  merry  Dinadan,  that  with  jape  and  scoff 

Kept  us  all  merry,  in  a  little  wood 
50 


Was  found  all  hack'd  and  dead  :  Sir  Lionel 

And  Gauwalne  have  come  back  from  the  great  quest, 

Just  merely  shamed ;  and  Lauvaine,  who  loved  well 
Your  father  Launcelot,  at  the  king's  behest 

Went  out  to  seek  him,  but  was  almost  slain. 

Perhaps  is  dead  now  ;  everywhere 
The  knights  come  foil'd  from  the  great  quest,  in  vain ; 

In  vain  they  struggle  for  the  vision  fair. 


5" 


THE   CHAPEL  IN   LYONESS 


S3 


THE   CHAPEL   IN   LYONESS 

Sir  Ozana  le  cure  Hardy.     Sir  Galahad. 
Sir  Bors  de  Ganys. 

Sir  Ozana. 

ALL  day  long  and  every  day, 
From  Christmas- Eve  to  Whit-Sunday, 
Within  that  Chapel-aisle  I  lay. 
And  no  man  came  a-near. 

Naked  to  the  waist  was  I, 
And  deep  within  my  breast  did  lie, 
Though  no  man  any  blood  could  spy, 
The  truncheon  of  a  spear. 

No  meat  did  ever  pass  my  lips. 
Those  days — (Alas  !  the  sunlight  slips 
From  off  the  gilded  parclose,  dips. 
And  night  comes  on  apace.) 
55 


My  arms  lay  back  behind  my  head ; 
Over  my  raised-up  knees  was  spread 
A  samite  cloth  of  white  and  red ; 
A  rose  lay  on  my  face. 

Many  a  time  I  tried  to  shout ; 
But  as  in  dream  of  battle-rout, 
My  frozen  speech  would  not  well  out ; 
I  could  not  even  weep. 

With  inward  sigh  I  see  the  sun 
Fade  off  the  pillars  one  by  one, 
My  heart  faints  when  the  day  is  done. 
Because  I  cannot  sleep. 

Sometimes  strange  thoughts  pass  through  my  head ; 
Not  like  a  tomb  is  this  my  bed,     ' 
Yet  oft  I  think  that  I  am  dead ; 
That  round  my  tomb  is  writ, 

**  Ozana  of  the  hardy  heart. 
Knight  of  the  Table  Round, 
Pray  for  his  soul,  lords,  of  your  part ; 
A  true  knight  he  was  found." 

Ah  !   me,  I  cannot  fathom  it.  [_He  sleeps, 

56 


Sir  Galahad. 

All  day  long  and  every  day, 
Till  his  madness  pass'd  away, 
I  watch'd  Ozana  as  he  lay 
Within  the  gilded  screen. 

All  my  singing  moved  him  not ; 
As  I  sung  my  heart  grew  hot, 
With  the  thought  of  Launcelot 
Far  away,  I  ween. 

So  I  went  a  little  space 
From  out  the  chapel,  bathed  my  face 
In  the  stream  that  runs  apace 
By  the  churchyard  wall. 

There  I  pluck'd  a  faint  wild  rose. 
Hard  by  where  the  linden  grows. 
Sighing  over  silver  rows 
Of  the  lilies  tall. 

I  laid  the  flower  across  his  mouth ; 
The  sparkling  drops  seem'd  good  for  drouth ; 
He  smiled,  turn'd  round  toward  the  south. 
Held  up  a  golden  tress. 
57 


The  light  smote  on  it  from  the  west : 
He  drew  the  covering  from  his  breast, 
Against  his  heart  that  hair  he  prest ; 
Death  him  soon  will  bless. 

Sir  Bors. 
I  enter'd  by  the  western  door ; 

I  saw  a  knight's  helm  lying  there  : 
I  raised  my  eyes  from  off  the  floor, 

And  caught  the  gleaming  of  his  hair. 

I  stept  full  softly  up  to  him  ; 

I  laid  my  chin  upon  his  head  ; 
I  felt  him  smile  ;  my  eyes  did  swim, 

I  was  so  glad  he  was  not  dead. 

I  heard  Ozana  murmur  low, 

"  There  comes  no  sleep  nor  any  love." 
But  Galahad  stoop'd  and  kiss'd  his  brow : 

He  shiver'd  ;  I  saw  his  pale  lips  move. 

Sir  Ozana. 
There  comes  no  sleep  nor  any  love ; 

Ah  me  !   I  shiver  with  delight. 
I  am  so  weak  I  cannot  move ; 

God  move  me  to  thee,  dear,  to-night ! 
58 


Christ  help  !   I  have  but  little  wit : 
My  life  went  wrong  ;   I  see  it  writ, 

"  Ozana  of  the  hardy  heart, 

Knight  of  the  Table  Round, 
Pray  for  his  soul,  lords,  on  your  part ; 

A  good  knight  he  was  found/' 

Now  I  begin  to  fathom  it.  \_He  dies. 

Sir  Bors. 
Galahad  sits  dreamily : 
What  strange  things  may  his  eyes  see. 
Great  blue  eyes  fix'd  full  on  me  ? 
On  his  soul,  Lord,  have  mercy. 

Sir  Galahad. 
Ozana,  shall  I  pray  for  thee  ? 

Her  cheek  is  laid  to  thine ; 
No  long  time  hence,  also  I  see 

Thy  wasted  fingers  twine 

Within  the  tresses  of  her  hair 

That  shineth  gloriously. 
Thinly  outspread  in  the  clear  air 

Against  the  jasper  sea. 
59 


SIR  PETER   HARPDON'S  END 


6i 


SIR   PETER   HARPDON'S    END 

In  an  English  castle  in  Poictou. 

Sir  Peter  Harpdon,  a  Gascon  knight  in  the  English 
service^  and  John  Curzon,  his  lieutenant, 

John  Curzon. 

OF  those  three  prisoners,  that  before  you  came 
We  took  down  at  St.  John's  hard  by  the  mill, 
Two  are  good  masons ;  we  have  tools  enough, 
And  you  have  skill  to  set  them  working. 

Sir  Peter. 

So— 
What  are  their  names  ? 

John  Cur5lon. 

Why,  Jacques  Aquadent, 
And  Peter  Plombiere,  but — 
63 


Sir  Peter. 

What  coloured  hair 
Has  Peter  now  ?  has  Jacques  got  bow  legs  ? 

John  Curzon. 

Why,  sir,  you  jest — what  matters  Jacques'  hair, 
Or  Peter's  legs  to  us  ? 

Sir  Peter. 

O  !  John,  John,  John  ! 
Throw  all  your  mason's  tools  down  the  deep  well, 
Hang  Peter  up  and  Jacques ;  they're  no  good. 
We  shall  not  build,  man. 

John  Curzon   [j[omg'2. 

Shall  I  call  the  guard 
To  hang  them,  sir  ?  and  yet,  sir,  for  the  tools. 
We'd  better  keep  them  still ;  sir,  fare  you  well. 

[^Muttering  as  he  goes. 
What  have  I  done  that  he  should  jape  at  me  ? 
And  why  not  build  ?  the  walls  are  weak  enough. 
And  we've  two  masons  and  a  heap  of  tools. 

[_GoeSy  still  muttering, 

64 


Sir  Peter. 

To  think  a  man  should  have  a  lump  like  that 

For  his  lieutenant !     I  must  call  him  back, 

Or  else,  as  surely  as  St.  George  is  dead, 

He'll  hang  our  friends  the  masons — here,  John  !  John  ! 

John  Curzon. 
At  your  good  service,  sir. 

Sir  Peter. 

Come  now,  and  talk 
This  weighty  matter  out ;  there — we've  no  stone 
To  mend  our  walls  with, — neither  brick  nor  stone. 

John  Curzon. 
There  is  a  quarry,  sir,  some  ten  miles  ofF. 

Sir  Peter. 

We  are  not  strong  enough  to  send  ten  men 
Ten  miles  to  fetch  us  stone  enough  to  build. 
In  three  hours'  time  they  would  be  taken  or  slain, 
The  cursed  Frenchmen  ride  abroad  so  thick. 

John  Curzon. 

But  we  can  send  some  villaynes  to  get  stone. 

65  F 


Sir  Peter. 

Alas  !  John,  that  we  cannot  bring  them  back, 

They  would  go  off  to  Clisson  or  Sanxere, 

And  tell  them  we  were  weak  in  walls  and  men, 

Then  down  go  we ;  for,  look  you,  times  are  changed, 

And  now  no  longer  does  the  country  shake 

At  sound  of  English  names ;  our  captains  fade 

From  off  our  muster-rolls.     At  Lusac  bridge 

I  daresay  you  may  even  yet  see  the  hole 

That  Chandos  beat  in  dying  ;  far  in  Spain 

Pembroke  is  prisoner  ;  Phelton  prisoner  here  ; 

Manny  lies  buried  in  the  Charterhouse  ; 

Oliver  Clisson  turn'd  these  years  agone ;    - 

The  Captal  died  in  prison ;  and,  over  all, 

Edward  the  prince  lies  underneath  the  ground, 

Edward  the  king  is  dead,  at  Westminster 

The  carvers  smooth  the  curls  of  his  long  beard. 

Everything  goes  to  rack — eh  !   and  we  too. 

Now,  Curzon,  listen  ;  if  they  come,  these  French, 

Whom  have  I  got  to  lean  on  here,  but  you  ? 

A  man  can  die  but  once,  will  you  die  then. 

Your  brave  sword  in  your  hand,  thoughts  in  your  heart 

Of  all  the  deeds  we  have  done  here  in  France — 

And  yet  may  do  ?     So  God  will  have  your  soul, 

Whoever  has  your  body. 

66 


John  Curzon. 

Why,  sir,  I 
Will  fight  till  the  last  moment,  until  then 
Will  do  whate'er  you  tell  me.     Now  I  see 
We  must  e'en  leave  the  walls  ;  well,  well,  perhaps 
They're  stronger  than  I  think  for  ;  pity,  though ! 
For  some  few  tons  of  stone,  if  Guesclin  comes. 

Sir  Peter. 

Farewell,  John,  pray  you  watch  the  Gascons  well, 
I  doubt  them. 

John  Curzon. 
Truly,  sir,  I  will  watch  well.      \^Goes. 

Sir  Peter. 

Farewell,  good  lump  !  and  yet,  when  all  is  said, 

'Tis  a  good  lump.     Why  then,  if  Guesclin  comes ; 

Some  dozen  stones  from  his  petrariae. 

And,  under  shelter  of  his  crossbows,  just 

An  hour's  steady  work  with  pickaxes. 

Then  a  great  noise — some  dozen  swords  and  glaives 

A-playing  on  my  basnet  all  at  once, 

And  little  more  cross  purposes  on  earth 

For  me. 

67 


Now  this  is  hard :  a  month  ago, 
And  a  few  minutes'  talk  had  set  things  right 
'Twixt  me  and  Alice  ; — if  she  had  a  doubt, 
As  (may  Heaven  bless  her  1)  I  scarce  think  she  had, 
'Twas  but  their  hammer,  hammer  in  her  ears. 
Of  «  how  Sir  Peter  fail'd  at  Lusac  bridge :  " 
And  "  how  he  was  grown  moody  of  late  days  ;  " 
And  "how  Sir  Lambert,"  (think  now!)  "his  dear 

friend. 
His  sweet,  dear  cousin,  could  not  but  confess 
That  Peter's  talk  tended  towards  the  French, 
Which  he  ''  (for  instance  Lambert)  "  was  glad  of. 
Being  "  (Lambert,  you  see)  "  on  the  French  side." 

Well, 
If  I  could  but  have  seen  her  on  that  day, 
Then,  when  they  sent  me  off ! 

I  like  to  think. 
Although  it  hurts  me,  makes  my  head  twist,  what. 
If  I  had  seen  her,  what  I  should  have  said, 
What  she,  my  darling,  would  have  said  and  done. 
As  thus  perchance — 

To  find  her  sitting  there. 
In  the  window-seat,  not  looking  well  at  all. 
Crying  perhaps,  and  I  say  quietly  ; 
"  Alice  1  "  she  looks  up,  chokes  a  sob,  looks  grave, 
68 


Changes  from  pale  to  red,  but,  ere  she  speaks, 
Straightway  I  kneel  down  there  on  both  my  knees, 
And  say :   **  O  lady,  have  I  sinn'd,  your  knight  ? 
That  still  you  ever  let  me  walk  alone 
In  the  rose  garden,  that  you  sing  no  songs 
When  I  am  by,  that  ever  in  the  dance 
You  quietly  walk  away  when  I  come  near  ? 
Now  that  I  have  you,  will  you  go,  think  you  :  " 

Ere  she  could  answer  I  would  speak  again. 
Still  kneeling  there. 

"  What !    they  have  frighted  you, 
By  hanging  burs,  and  clumsily  carven  puppets. 
Round  my  good  name  ;  but  afterwards,  my  love, 
I  will  say  what  this  means ;  this  moment,  see  ! 
Do  I  kneel  here,  and  can  you  doubt  me  ?     Yea," 
(For  she  would  put  her  hands  upon  my  face,) 
<*  Yea,  that  is  best,  yea  feel,  love,  am  I  changed  ?  " 
And  she  would  say  :   "  Good  knight,  come,  kiss  my 

lips !  " 
And  afterwards  as  I  sat  there  would  say  ; 

"  Please  a  poor  silly  girl  by  telling  me 
What  all  those  things  they  talk  of  really  were, 
For  it  is  true  you  did  not  help  Chandos, 
69 


And  true,  poor  love !  you  could  not  come  to  me 
When  I  was  in  such  peril." 

I  should  say : 
"  I  am  like  Balen,  all  things  turn  to  blame — 
I  did  not  come  to  you  ?     At  Bergerath 
The  constable  had  held  us  close  shut  up, 
If  from  the  barriers  I  had  made  three  steps, 
I  should  have  been  but  slain  ;   at  Lusac,  too, 
We  struggled  in  a  marish  half  the  day, 
And  came  too  late  at  last :  you  know,  my  love. 
How  heavy  men  and  horses  are  all  arm'd. 
All  that  Sir  Lambert  said  was  pure,  unmix'd. 
Quite  groundless  lies ;  as  you  can  think,  sweet  love." 

She,  holding  tight  my  hand  as  we  sat  there. 

Started  a  little  at  Sir  Lambert's  name. 

But  otherwise  she  listenM  scarce  at  all 

To  what  I  said.     Then  with  moist,  weeping  eyes. 

And  quivering  lips,  that  scarcely  let  her  speak, 

She  said,  "  I  love  you." 

Other  words  were  few. 
The  remnant  of  that  hour  ;  her  hand  smoothed  down 
My  foolish  head ;  she  kiss'd  me  all  about 
My  face,  and  through  the  tangles  of  my  beard 
Her  little  fingers  crept. 

70 


O  !   God,  my  Alice, 
Not  this  good  way  :  my  lord  but  sent  and  said 
That  Lambert's  sayings  were  taken  at  their  worth, 
Therefore  that  day  I  was  to  start,  and  keep 
This  hold  against  the  French  ;  and  I  am  here, — 

\JLoohs  out  of  the  window, 
A  sprawling  lonely  gard  with  rotten  wails. 
And  no  one  to  bring  aid  if  Guesclin  comes, 
Or  any  other. 

There's  a  pennon  now ! 
At  last. 

But  not  the  constables's — whose  arms, 
I  wonder,  does  it  bear  ?     Three  golden  rings 
On  a  red  ground  ;  my  cousin's  by  the  rood ! 
Well,  I  should  like  to  kill  him,  certainly. 
But  to  be  kill'd  by  him —  \_A  trumpet  sounds. 

That's  for  a  herald  ; 
I  doubt  this  does  not  mean  assaulting  yet. 

Enter  John  Curzon. 
What  says  the  herald  of  our  cousin,  sir  ? 

John  Curzon. 
So  please  you,  sir,  concerning  your  estate. 
He  has  good  will  to  talk  with  you, 
71 


Sir  Peter. 

Outside, 
I'll  talk  with  him,  close  by  the  gate  St.  Ives. 
Is  he  unarm'd  ? 

John  Curzon. 
Yea,  sir,  in  a  long  gown. 

Sir  Peter. 

Then  bid  them  bring  me  hither  my  furr'd  gown 

With  the  long  sleeves,  and  under  it  I'll  wear, 

By  Lambert's  leave,  a  secret  coat  of  mail; 

And  will  you  lend  me,  John,  your  little  axe  ? 

I  mean  the  one  with  Paul  wrought  on  the  blade  ? 

And  I  will  carry  it  inside  my  sleeve, 

Good  to  be  ready  always — you,  John,  go 

And  bid  them  set  up  many  suits  of  arms. 

Bows,  archgays,  lances,  in  the  base- court,  and 

Yourself,  from  the  south  postern  setting  out, 

With  twenty  men,  be  ready  to  break  through 

Their  unguarded  rear  when  I  cry  out  "  St.  George  !  " 

John  Curzon. 
How,  sir  !   will  you  attack  him  unawares. 
And  slay  him  unarm'd  ? 

7^ 


Sir  Peter. 

Trust  me,  John,  I  know 
The  reason  why  he  comes  here  with  sleeved  gown, 
Fit  to  hide  axes  up.     So,  let  us  go.  [^^hey  go» 


73 


Outside  the  castle  by  the  great  gate  ;  Sir  Lambert  and 
Sir  Peter  seated ;  guards  attending  eachy  the  rest  of 
Sir  Lambert's  men  drawn  up  about  a  furlong  off". 


A 


Sir  Peter. 

ND  if  I  choose  to  take  the  losing  side 
Still,  does  it  hurt  you  ? 


Sir  Lambert. 

O  !  no  hurt  to  me  ; 
I  see  you  sneering,  "  Why  take  trouble  then, 
Seeing  you  love  me  not  ? "  look  you,  our  house 
(Which,  taken  altogether,  I  love  much) 
Had  better  be  upon  the  right  side  now. 
If,  once  for  all,  it  wishes  to  bear  rule 
As  such  a  house  should :  cousin,  you're  too  wise 
To  feed  your  hope  up  fat,  that  this  fair  France 
Will  ever  draw  two  ways  again  ;  this  side 
The  French,  wrong-headed,  all  a- jar 
74 


With  envious  longings ;  and  the  other  side 

The  order'd  English,  orderly  led  on 

By  those  two  Edwards  through  all  wrong  and  right, 

And  muddling  right  and  wrong  to  a  thick  broth 

With  that  long  stick,  their  strength.    This  is  all  changed, 

The  true  French  win,  on  either  side  you  have 

Cool-headed  men,  good  at  a  tilting-match. 

And  good  at  setting  battles  in  array. 

And  good  at  squeezing  taxes  at  due  time  ; 

Therefore  by  nature  we  French  being  here 

Upon  our  own  big  land — 

[Sir  Peter  laughs  aloud. 
Well  Peter  !   well ! 
What  makes  you  laugh  ? 

Sir  Peter. 

Hearing  you  sweat  to  prove 
All  this  I  know  so  well ;   but  you  have  read 
The  siege  of  Troy  ? 

Sir  Lambert, 
O  !  yea,  I  know  it  well. 

Sir  Peter. 

There !  they  were  wrong,  as  wrong  as  men  could  be  ; 
For,  as  I  think,  they  found  it  such  delight 
75 


To  see  fair  Helen  going  through  their  town : 
Yea,  any  little  common  thing  she  did 
(As  stooping  to  pick  a  flower)  seem'd  so  strange, 
So  new  in  its  great  beauty,  that  they  said  ; 
"  Here  we  will  keep  her  living  in  this  town, 
Till  all  burns  up  together."     And  so,  fought. 
In  a  mad  whirl  of  knowing  they  were  wrong ; 
Yea,  they  fought  well,  and  ever,  like  a  man 
That  hangs,  legs  off  the  ground,  by  both  his  hands. 
Over  some  great  height,  did  they  struggle  sore, 
Quite  sure  to  slip  at  last ;  wherefore,  take  note 
How  almost  all  men,  reading  that  sad  siege. 
Hold  for  the  Trojans ;  as  I  did  at  least, 
Thought  Hector  the  best  knight  a  long  way ; 

Now 
Why  should  I  not  do  this  thing  that  I  think  ? 
For  even  when  I  come  to  count  the  gains, 
I  have  them  my  side  :  men  will  talk,  you  know, 
(We  talk  of  Hector,  dead  so  long  agone,) 
When  I  am  dead,  of  how  this  Peter  clung 
To  what  he  thought  the  right ;  of  how  he  died, 
Perchance,  at  last,  doing  some  desperate  deed 
Few  men  would  care  do  now,  and  this  is  gain 
To  me,  as  ease  and  money  is  to  you. 
Moreover,  too,  I  like  the  straining  game 
76 


Of  striving  well  to  hold  up  things  that  fall  ; 
So  one  becomes  great ;  see  you  !  in  good  times 
All  men  live  well  together,  and  you,  too. 
Live  dull  and  happy — happy  ?  not  so  quick, 
Suppose  sharp  thoughts  begin  to  burn  you  up. 
Why  then,  but  just  to  fight  as  I  do  now, 
A  halter  round  my  neck,  would  be  great  bliss. 

0  !   I  am  well  off.  IMde. 

Talk,  and  talk,  and  talk, 

1  know  this  man  has  come  to  murder  me, 
And  yet  I  talk  still. 

Sir  Lambert. 

If  your  side  were  right. 
You  might  be,  though  you  lost ;  but  if  I  said, 
"  You  are  a  traitor,  being,  as  you  are. 
Born  Frenchman."     What  are  Edwards  unto  you. 
Or  Richards  ? 

Sir  Peter. 
Nay,  hold  there,  my  Lambert,  hold ! 
For  fear  your  zeal  should  bring  you  to  some  harm, 
Don't  call  me  traitor. 

Sir  Lambert. 

Furthermore,  my  knight, 
Men  call  you  slippery  on  your  losing  side, 

77 


When  at  Bordeaux  I  was  ambassador, 

I  heard  them  say  so,  and  could  scarce  say  "  Nay." 

[_He  takes  hold  of  something  In 
his  sleeve  J  and  rises. 

Sir  Peter,  rising. 
They  lied — and  you  He,  not  for  the  first  time. 
What  have  you  got  there,  fumbling  up  your  sleeve, 
A  stolen  purse  ? 

Sir  Lambert. 
Nay,  liar  in  your  teeth  ! 
Dead  liar  too  ;   St.  Dennis  and  St.  Lambert ! 

\_Strikes  at  Sir  Peter  ivith  a  dagger. 

Sir  Peter,  striking  himjlatlings  ivith  his  axe. 
How  thief!  thief!  thief!  so  there,  fair  thief,  so  there, 
St.  George  Guienne  !  glaives  for  the  castellan  ! 
You  French,  you  are  but  dead,  unless  you  lay 
Your  spears  upon  the  earth.     St.  George  Guienne  ! 

Well  done,  John  Curzon,  how  he  has  them  now. 


78 


w 


In  the  Castle, 

John  Curzon. 
HAT  shall  we  do  with  all  these  prisoners,  sir  ? 


Sir  Peter. 
Why  put  them  all  to  ransom,  those  that  can 
Pay  anything,  but  not  too  light  though,  John, 
Seeing  we  have  them  on  the  hip :  for  those 
That  have  no  money,  that  being  certified. 
Why  turn  them  out  of  doors  before  they  spy ; 
But  bring  Sir  Lambert  guarded  unto  me. 

John  Curzon. 
I  will,  fair  sir.  \_He goes. 

Sir  Peter. 

I  do  not  wish  to  kill  him. 
Although  I  think  1  ought ;  he  shall  go  mark'd. 
By  all  the  saints,  though  ! 

79 


Enter  Lambert  guarded. 

Now,  Sir  Lambert,  now ! 
What  sort  of  death  do  you  expect  to  get. 
Being  taken  this  way  ? 

Sir  Lambert. 

Cousin  !   cousin  !   think  ! 
I  am  your  own  blood  ;  may  God  pardon  me  ! 
I  am  not  fit  to  die  ;  if  you  knew  all. 
All  I  have  done  since  I  was  young  and  good. 
O  !   you  would  give  me  yet  another  chance. 
As  God  would,  that  I  might  wash  all  clear  out, 
By  serving  you  and  Him.     Let  me  go  now  ! 
And  I  will  pay  you  down  more  golden  crowns 
Of  ransom  than  the  king  would ! 

Sir  Peter. 

Well,  stand  back, 
And  do  not  touch  me  !     No,  you  shall  not  die. 
Nor  yet  pay  ransom.     You,  John  Curzon,  cause 
Some  carpenters  to  build  a  scaffold,  high. 
Outside  the  gate  ;  when  it  is  built,  sound  out 
To  all  good  folks,  "  Come,  see  a  traitor  punish'd  !  " 
Take  me  my  knight,  and  set  him  up  thereon, 
And  let  the  hangman  shave  his  head  quite  clean, 
And  cut  his  ears  off  close  up  to  the  head  ; 
80 


And  cause  the  minstrels  all  the  while  to  play 
Soft  music,  and  good  singing  ;   for  this  day- 
Is  my  high  day  of  triumph  ;  is  it  not, 
Sir  Lambert  ? 

Sir  Lambert. 

Ah  !  on  your  own  blood, 
Own  name,  you  heap  this  foul  disgrace  ?  you  dare. 
With  hands  and  fame  thus  sullied,  to  go  back 
And  take  the  lady  Alice — 

Sir  Peter. 

Say  her  name 
Again,  and  you  are  dead,  slain  here  by  me. 
Why  should  I  talk  with  you  ?     I'm  master  here. 
And  do  not  want  your  schooling ;   is  it  not 
My  mercy  that  you  are  not  dangling  dead 
There  in  the  gateway  with  a  broken  neck  ? 

Sir  Lambert. 
Such  mercy  !   why  not  kill  me  then  outright  ? 
To  die  is  nothing  ;  but  to  live  that  all 
May  point  their  fingers  !   yea,  I'd  rather  die. 

John  Curzon. 
Why,  will  it  make  you  any  uglier  man 
To  lose  your  ears  ?  they're  much  too  big  for  you, 
You  ugly  Judas ! 

8l  G 


Sir  Peter. 
Hold,  John!  ITo  Lambert. 

That's  your  choice, 
To  die,  mind  !     Then  you  shall  die — Lambert  mine, 
I  thank  you  now  for  choosing  this  so  well. 
It  saves  me  much  perplexity  and  doubt ; 
Perchance  an  ill  deed  too,  for  half  I  count 
This  sparing  traitors  is  an  ill  deed. 

Well, 
Lambert,  die  bravely,  and  we're  almost  friends. 

Sir  Lambert,  grovelling, 

0  God  !  this  is  a  fiend  and  not  a  man  ; 

Will  some  one  save  me  from  him  ?  help,  help,  help ! 

1  will  not  die. 

Sir  Peter. 

Why,  what  is  this  I  see  ? 
A  man  who  is  a  knight,  and  bandied  words 
So  well  just  now  with  me,  is  lying  down. 
Gone  mad  for  fear  like  this  !      So,  so,  you  thought 
You  knew  the  worst,  and  might  say  what  you  pleased. 
I  should  have  guess'd  this  from  a  man  like  you. 
Eh  !  righteous  Job  would  give  up  skin  for  skin. 
Yea,  all  a  man  can  have  for  simple  life, 
82 


And  we  talk  fine,  yea,  even  a  hound  like  this, 
Who  needs  must  know  that  when  he  dies,  deep  hell 
Will  hold  him  fast  for  ever — so  fine  we  talk, 
"  Would  rather  die  " — all  that.     Now  sir,  get  up  ! 
And  choose  again :  shall  it  be  head  sans  ears, 
Or  trunk  sans  head  ? 

John  Curzon,  pull  him  up ! 
What,  life  then  ?  go  and  build  the  scaffold,  John. 

Lambert,  1  hope  that  never  on  this  earth 
We  meet  again ;  that  youMl  turn  out  a  monk. 
And  mend  the  life  I  give  you,  so,  farewell, 
I'm  sorry  you're  a  rascal.     John,  despatch. 


83 


In  the  French  camp  before  the  Castle, 
Sir  Fetev  prisoner,  Guesclin,  Clisson,  Sir  Lambert. 

Sir  Peter. 

SO  now  is  come  the  ending  of  my  life  ; 
If  I  could  clear  this  sickening  lump  away 
That  sticks  in  my  dry  throat,  and  say  a  word, 
Guesclin  might  listen. 

Guesclin, 

Tell  me,  fair  sir  knight, 
If  you  have  been  clean  liver  before  God, 
And  then  you  need  not  fear  much  ;  as  for  me, 
I  cannot  say  I  hate  you,  yet  my  oath, 
And  cousin  Lambert's  ears  here  clench  the  thing. 

Sir  Peter. 
I  knew  you  could  not  hate  me,  therefore  I 
Am  bold  to  pray  for  life  ;  'twill  harm  your  cause 
84 


To  hang  knights  of  good  name,  harm  here  in  France 
I  have  small  doubt,  at  any  rate  hereafter 
Men  will  remember  you  another  way 
Than  I  should  care  to  be  remember'd,  ah ! 
Although  hot  lead  runs  through  me  for  my  blood, 
All  this  falls  cold  as  though  I  said,  **  Sweet  lords, 
Give  back  my  falcon  !  " 

See  how  young  I  am. 
Do  you  care  altogether  more  than  France, 
Say  rather  one  French  faction,  than  for  all 
The  state  of  Christendom  ?  a  gallant  knight. 
As  (yea,  by  God  ! )  I  have  been,  is  more  worth 
Than  many  castles  ;   will  you  bring  this  death. 
For  a  mere  act  of  justice,  on  my  head  ? 

Think  how  it  ends  all,  death  !  all  other  things 
Can  somehow  be  retrieved,  yea,  send  me  forth 
Naked  and  maimed,  rather  than  slay  me  here  ; 
Then  somehow  will  I  get  me  other  clothes. 
And  somehow  will  I  get  me  some  poor  horse. 
And,  somehow  clad  in  poor  old  rusty  arms. 
Will  ride  and  smite  among  the  serried  glaives. 
Fear  not  death  so  ;  for  I  can  tilt  right  well. 
Let  me  not  say  "  I  could  ;"  I  know  all  tricks. 
That  sway  the  sharp  sword  cunningly  ;  ah  you, 
85 


You,  my  Lord  Clisson,  in  the  other  days 
Have  seen  me  learning  these,  yea,  call  to  mind, 
How  in  the  trodden  corn  by  Chartres  town, 
When  you  were  nearly  swooning  from  the  back 
Of  your  black  horse,  those  three  blades  slid  at  once 
From  off  my  sword's  edge ;  pray  for  me,  my  lord ! 

Clisson. 

Nay,  this  is  pitiful,  to  see  him  die. 

My  Lord  the  Constable,  I  pray  you  note 

That  you  are  losing  some  few  thousand  crowns 

By  slaying  this  man  ;  also  think  ;   his  lands 

Along  the  Garonne  river  lie  for  leagues, 

And  are  right  rich,  a  many  mills  he  has, 

Three  abbeys  of  grey  monks  do  hold  of  him. 

Though  wishing  well  for  Clement,  as  we  do ; 

I  know  the  next  heir,  his  old  uncle,  well. 

Who  does  not  care  two  derniers  for  the  knight 

As  things  go  now,  but  slay  him,  and  then  see. 

How  he  will  bristle  up  like  any  perch, 

With  curves  of  spears.     What !  do  not  doubt,  my  lord. 

You'll  get  the  money,  this  man  saved  my  life. 

And  I  will  buy  him  for  two  thousand  crowns ; 

Well,  five  then — eh  !   what !   "  No  "  again  ?  well  then, 

Ten  thousand  crowns  ? 

86 


GUESCLIN. 

My  sweet  lord,  much  I  grieve 
I  cannot  please  you,  yea,  good  sooth,  I  grieve 
This  knight  must  die,  as  verily  he  must ; 
For  I  have  sworn  it ;  so,  men,  take  him  out. 
Use  him  not  roughly. 

Sir  Lambert,  coming  forward. 

Music,  do  you  know, 
Music  will  suit  you  well,  I  think,  because 
You  look  so  mild,  like  Laurence  being  grilled  ; 
Or  perhaps  music  soft  and  slow,  because 
This  is  high  day  of  triumph  unto  me, 
Is  it  not,  Peter  ? 

You  are  frighten'd,  though. 
Eh  !   you  are  pale,  because  this  hurts  you  much, 
Whose  life  was  pleasant  to  you,  not  like  mine. 
You  ruin'd  wretch !     Men  mock  me  in  the  streets, 
Only  in  whispers  loud,  because  I  am 
Friend  of  the  constable  ;  will  this  please  you, 
Unhappy  Peter  ?  once  a-going  home. 
Without  my  servants,  and  a  little  drunk. 
At  midnight  through  the  lone  dim  lamp-lit  streets, 
A  whore  came  up  and  spat  into  my  eyes, 
(Rather  to  blind  me  than  to  make  me  see,) 
87 


But  she  was  very  drunk,  and  tottering  back, 
Even  in  the  middle  of  her  laughter,  fell 
And  cut  her  head  against  the  pointed  stones. 
While  I  lean'd  on  my  staff,  and  look'd  at  her, 
And  cried,  being  drunk. 

Girls  would  not  spit  at  you. 
You  are  so  handsome,  I  think  verily 
Most  ladies  would  be  glad  to  kiss  your  eyes. 
And  yet  you  will  be  hung  like  a  cur  dog 
Five  minutes  hence,  and  grow  black  in  the  face. 
And  curl  your  toes  up.     Therefore  I  am  glad. 

Guess  why  I  stand  and  talk  this  nonsense  now. 
With  Guesclin  getting  ready  to  play  chess. 
And  Clisson  doing  something  with  his  sword, 
I  can't  see  what,  talking  to  Guesclin  though, 
I  don't  know  what  about,  perhaps  of  you. 
But,  cousin  Peter,  while  I  stroke  your  beard. 
Let  me  say  this,  I'd  like  to  tell  you  now 
That  your  life  hung  upon  a  game  of  chess. 
That  if,  say,  my  squire  Robert  here  should  beat, 
Why  you  should  live,  but  hang  if  I  beat  him  ; 
Then  guess,  clever  Peter,  what  I  should  do  then ; 
Well,  give  it  up  ?  why,  Peter,  I  should  let 
My  squire  Robert  beat  me,  then  you  would  think 
88 


That  you  were  safe,  you  know  ;   Eh  ?  not  at  all, 
But  I  should  keep  you  three  days  in  some  hold, 
Giving  you  salt  to  eat,  which  would  be  kind. 
Considering  the  tax  there  is  on  salt ; 
And  afterwards  should  let  you  go,  perhaps  ? 
No  I  should  not,  but  I  should  hang  you,  sir. 
With  a  red  rope  in  lieu  of  mere  grey  rope. 

But  I  forgot,  you  have  not  told  me  yet 
If  you  can  guess  why  I  talk  nonsense  thus. 
Instead  of  drinking  wine  while  you  are  hang'd  ? 
You  are  not  quick  at  guessing,  give  it  up. 
This  is  the  reason ;  here  I  hold  your  hand, 
And  watch  you  growing  paler,  see  you  writhe. 
And  this,  my  Peter,  is  a  joy  so  dear, 
I  cannot  by  all  striving  tell  you  how 
I  love  it,  nor  I  think,  good  man,  would  you 
Quite  understand  my  great  delight  therein ; 
You,  when  you  had  me  underneath  you  once. 
Spat  as  it  were,  and  said,  "  Go  take  him  out," 
(That  they  might  do  that  thing  to  me  whereat. 
E'en  now  this  long  time  off,  I  could  well  shriek,) 
And  then  you  tried  forget  I  ever  lived. 
And  sunk  your  hating  into  other  things  ; 
While  I — St.  Dennis !   though,  I  think  you'll  faint, 
89 


Your  lips  are  grey  so ;  yes,  you  will,  unless 
You  let  it  out  and  weep  like  a  hurt  child ; 
Hurrah  !  you  do  now.     Do  not  go  just  yet, 
For  I  am  Alice,  am  right  like  her  now ; 
Will  you  not  kiss  me  on  the  lips,  my  love  ? — 

Clisson. 
You  filthy  beast,  stand  back  and  let  him  go. 
Or  by  God's  eyes  I'll  choke  you. 

[^Knee/mg  to  Sir  Peter. 
Fair  sir  knight, 
I  kneel  upon  my  knees  and  pray  to  you 
That  you  would  pardon  me  for  this  your  death  ; 
God  knows  how  much  I  wish  you  still  alive. 
Also  how  heartily  I  strove  to  save 
Your  life  at  this  time ;   yea,  He  knows  quite  well, 
(I  swear  it,  so  forgive  me !)   how  I  would. 
If  it  were  possible,  give  up  my  life 
Upon  this  grass  for  yours  ;  fair  knight,  although. 
He  knowing  all  things  knows  this  thing  too,  well. 
Yet  when  you  see  His  face  some  short  time  hence. 
Tell  Him  I  tried  to  save  you. 

Sir  Peter. 

O  !   my  lord, 
I  cannot  say  this  is  as  good  as  life, 
90 


But  yet  it  makes  me  feel  far  happier  now, 
And  if  at  all,  after  a  thousand  years, 
I  see  God's  face,  I  will  speak  loud  and  bold, 
And  tell  Him  you  were  kind,  and  like  Himself ; 
Sir,  may  God  bless  you ! 

Did  you  note  how  I 
Fell  weeping  just  now  ?  pray  you,  do  not  think 
That  Lambert's  taunts  did  this,  I  hardly  heard 
The  base  things  that  he  said,  being  deep  in  thought 
Of  all  things  that  have  happened  since  I  was 
A  little  child  ;  and  so  at  last  I  thought 
Of  my  true  lady :  truly,  sir,  it  seem'd 
No  longer  gone  than  yesterday,  that  this 
Was  the  sole  reason  God  let  me  be  born 
Twenty- five  years  ago,  that  I  might  love 
Her,  my  sweet  lady,  and  be  loved  by  her  ; 
This  seem'd  so  yesterday,  to-day  death  comes. 
And  is  so  bitter  strong,  I  cannot  see 
Why  I  was  born. 

But  as  a  last  request, 
I  pray  you,  O  kind  Clisson,  send  some  man. 
Some  good  man,  mind  you,  to  say  how  I  died. 
And  take  my  last  love  to  her  :  fare-you-well, 
And  may  God  keep  you  ;   I  must  go  now,  lest 
I  grow  too  sick  with  thinking  on  these  things  ; 
91 


Likewise  my  feet  are  wearied  of  the  earth, 
From  whence  I  shall  be  lifted  up  right  soon. 

[y^j-  he  goes. 

Ah  me !   shamed  too,  I  wept  at  fear  of  death  ; 
And  yet  not  so,  I  only  wept  because 
There  was  no  beautiful  lady  to  kiss  me 
Before  I  died,  and  sweetly  wish  good  speed 
From  her  dear  lips.     O  for  some  lady,  though 
I  saw  her  ne'er  before ;  Alice,  my  love, 
I  do  not  ask  for  ;  Clisson  was  right  kind, 
If  he  had  been  a  woman,  I  should  die 
Without  this  sickness  :  but  I  am  all  wrong, 
So  wrong  and  hopelessly  afraid  to  die. 
There,  I  will  go. 

My  God  !  how  sick  I  am. 
If  only  she  could  come  and  kiss  me  now. 


9^ 


The  Hotel  de  la  Barde,  Bordeaux, 

The  Lady  Alice  de  la  Barde  looking  out  of  a 
window  into  the  street, 

NO  news  yet !   surely,  still  he  holds  his  own  ; 
That  garde  stands  well ;  T  mind  me  passing  it 
Some  months  ago  ;   God  grant  the  walls  are  strong  ! 
I  heard  some  knights  say  something  yestereve, 
I  tried  hard  to  forget :  words  far  apart 
Struck  on  my  heart ;  something  like  this  ;  one  said, 
"  What  eh  !   a  Gascon  with  an  English  name, 
Harpdon  ?  "  then  nought,  but  afterwards,  "  Poictou.'* 
As  one  who  answers  to  a  question  ask'd  ; 
Then  carelessly  regretful  came,  **  No,  no." 
Whereto  in  answer  loud  and  eagerly. 
One  said,  "  Impossible  ?     Christ,  what  foul  play  !  " 
And  went  off  angrily  ;  and  while  thenceforth 
I  hurried  gaspingly  afraid,  I  heard, 
93 


"  Guesclin  ;  "     **  Five    thousand     men-at-arms  ;  '' 

"  Clisson." 
My  heart  misgives  me  it  is  all  in  vain 
I  send  these  succours  ;  and  in  good  time  there  ! 
Their  trumpet  sounds,  ah  !  here  they  are  ;  good  knights, 
God  up  in  Heaven  keep  you. 

If  they  come 
And  find  him  prisoner — for  I  can't  believe 
Guesclin  will  slay  him,  even  though  they  storm — 
(The  last  horse  turns  the  corner.) 

God  in  Heaven  ! 
What  have  I  got  to  thinking  of  at  last ! 
That  thief  I  will  not  name  is  with  Guesclin, 
Who  loves  him  for  his  lands.     My  love  !   my  love  ! 
O,  if  I  lose  you  after  all  the  past, 
What  shall  I  do  ? 

I  cannot  bear  the  noise 
And  light  street  out  there,  with  this  thought  alive. 
Like  any  curling  snake  within  my  brain ; 
Let  me  just  hide  my  head  within  these  soft 
Deep  cushions,  there  to  try  and  think  it  out. 

\_Ly'tng  in  the  ivindow^seat. 
I  cannot  hear  much  noise  now,  and  I  think 
That  I  shall  go  to  sleep :  it  all  sounds  dim 
And  faint,  and  I  shall  soon  forget  most  things ; 
94 


Yea,  almost  that  I  am  alive  and  here  ; 

It  goes  slow,  comes  slow,  like  a  big  mill-wheel 

On  some  broad  stream,  with  long  green  weeds  a-sway, 

And  soft  and  slow  it  rises  and  it  falls. 

Still  going  onward. 

Lying  so,  one  kiss, 
And  I  should  be  in  Avalon  asleep. 
Among  the  poppies,  and  the  yellow  flowers  : 
And  they  should  brush  my  cheek,  my  hair  being  spread 
Far  out  among  the  stems  ;  soft  mice  and  small 
Eating  and  creeping  all  about  my  feet. 
Red  shod  and  tired  ;  and  the  flies  should  come 
Creeping  o'er  my  broad  eyelids  unafraid  ; 
And  there  should  be  a  noise  of  water  going, 
Clear  blue,  fresh  water  breaking  on  the  slates. 
Likewise  the  flies  should  creep — God's  eyes !  God  help, 
A  trumpet  ?  I  will  run  fast,  leap  adown 
The  slippery  sea-stairs,  where  the  crabs  fight. 

Ah! 
I  was  half  dreaming,  but  the  trumpet's  true, 
He  stops  here  at  our  house.     The  Clisson  arms  ? 
Ah,  now  for  news.     But  I  must  hold  my  heart. 
And  be  quite  gentle  till  he  is  gone  out ; 
And  afterwards, — but  he  is  still  alive, 
He  must  be  still  alive. 

95 


Enter  a  Squire  o/*  Clisson's. 

Good  day,  fair  sir, 
I  give  you  welcome,  knowing  whence  you  come. 

Squire. 
My  Lady  Alice  de  la  Barde,  I  come 
From  Oliver  Clisson,  knight  and  mighty  lord,^ 
Bringing  you  tidings  ;   I  make  bold  to  hope 
You  will  not  count  me  villain,  even  if 
They  wring  your  heart  ;  nor  hold  me  still  in  hate. 
For  I  am  but  a  mouthpiece  after  all, 
A  mouthpiece,  too,  of  one  who  wishes  well 
To  you  and  your's. 

Alice. 
Can  you  talk  faster,  sir. 
Get  over  all  this  quicker  ?  fix  your  eyes 
On  mine,  I  pray  you,  and  whatever  you  see. 
Still  go  on  talking  fast,  unless  I  fall, 
Or  bid  you  stop. 

Squire. 
I  pray  your  pardon  then, 
And,  looking  in  your  eyes,  fair  lady,  say 
I  am  unhappy  that  your  knight  is  dead. 
Take  heart,  and  listen  !   let  me  tell  you  all. 
We  were  five  thousand  goodly  men-at-arms, 
96 


And  scant  five  hundred  had  he  in  that  hold ; 

His  rotten  sand-stone  walls  were  wet  with  rain, 

And  fell  in  lumps  wherever  a  stone  hit ; 

Yet  for  three  days  about  the  barrier  there 

The  deadly  glaives  were  gather' d,  laid  across, 

And  push'd  and  pull'd  ;  the  fourth  our  engines  came ; 

But  still  amid  the  crash  of  falling  walls, 

And  roar  of  lombards,  rattle  of  hard  bolts. 

The  steady  bow-strings  flash'd,  and  still  streamed  out 

St.  George's  banner,  and  the  seven  swords. 

And  still  they  cried,  "  St.  George  Guienne,"  until 

Their  walls  were  flat  as  Jericho's  of  old. 

And  our  rush  came,  and  cut  them  from  the  keep. 

Alice. 
Stop,  sir,  and  tell  me  if  you  slew  him  then, 
And  where  he  died,  if  you  can  really  mean 
That  Peter  Harpdon,  the  good  knight,  is  dead  ? 

Squire. 
Fair  lady,  in  the  base-court — 

Alice. 

What  base-court  ? 
What  do  you  talk  of  ?     Nay,  go  on,  go  on ; 
'Twas  only  something  gone  within  my  head : 
Do  you  not  know,  one  turns  one's  head  round  quick, 
97  H 


And  something  cracks  there  with  sore  pain  ?  go  on, 
And  still  look  at  my  eyes. 

Squire. 

Almost  alone, 
There  in  the  base-court  fought  he  with  his  sword. 
Using  his  left  hand  much,  more  than  the  wont 
Of  most  knights  now-a-days  ;  our  men  gave  back. 
For  wheresoever  he  hit  a  downright  blow. 
Some  one  fell  bleeding,  for  no  plate  could  hold 
Against  the  sway  of  body  and  great  arm ; 
Till  he  grew  tired,  and  some  man  (no  !  not  I, 
I  swear  not  I,  fair  lady,  as  I  live ! ) 
Thrust  at  him  with  a  glaive  between  the  knees. 
And  threw  him ;  down  he  fell,  sword  undermost ; 
Many  fell  on  him,  crying  out  their  cries. 
Tore  his  sword  from  him,  tore  his  helm  off,  and — 

Alice. 
Yea,  slew  him  :  I  am  much  too  young  to  live. 
Fair  God,  so  let  me  die. 

You  have  done  well. 
Done  all  your  message  gently,  pray  you  go. 
Our  knights  will  make  you  cheer  ;  moreover,  take 
This  bag  of  franks  for  your  expenses. 

[The  Squire  kneels, 

98 


But 
You  do  not  go ;   still  looking  at  my  face, 
You  kneel  !  what,  squire,  do  you  mock  me  then  ? 
You  need  not  tell  me  who  has  set  you  on. 
But  tell  me  only,  'tis  a  made-up  tale. 
You  are  some  lover  may-be,  or  his  friend ; 
Sir,  if  you  loved  me  once,  or  your  friend  loved, 
Think,  is  it  not  enough  that  I  kneel  down 
And  kiss  your  feet,  your  jest  will  be  right  good 
If  you  give  in  now,  carry  it  too  far. 
And  'twill  be  cruel ;  not  yet  ?  but  you  weep 
Almost,  as  though  you  loved  me ;  love  me  then, 
And  go  to  Heaven  by  telling  all  your  sport. 
And  I  will  kiss  you,  then  with  all  my  heart. 
Upon  the  mouth  ;   O  !  what  can  I  do  then 
To  move  you  ? 

Squire. 
Lady  fair,  forgive  me  still ! 
You  know  I  am  so  sorry,  but  my  tale 
Is  not  yet  finish' d  : 

So  they  bound  his  hands. 
And  brought  him  tall  and  pale  to  Guesclin's  tent. 
Who,  seeing  him,  leant  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
And  ponder'd  somewhile,  afterwards,  looking  up — 
Fair  dame,  what  shall  I  say  ? 
99 


Alice. 

Yea,  I  know  now, 
Good  squire,  you  may  go  now  with  my  thanks. 

Squire. 
Yet,  lady,  for  your  own  sake  I  say  this. 
Yea,  for  my  own  sake,  too,  and  Clisson's  sake. 
When  Guesclin  told  him  he  must  be  hanged  soon, 
Within  a  while  he  lifted  up  his  head 
And  spoke  for  his  own  life  ;  not  crouching,  though, 
As  abjectly  afraid  to  die,  nor  yet 
Sullenly  brave  as  many  a  thief  will  die ; 
Nor  yet  as  one  that  plays  at  japes  with  God : 
Few  words  he  spoke  ;  not  so  much  what  he  said 
Moved  us,  I  think,  as  saying  it,  there  played 
Strange  tenderness  from  that  big  soldier  there 
About  his  pleading  ;  eagerness  to  live 
Because  folk  loved  him,  and  he  loved  them  back. 
And  many  gallant  plans  unfinish'd  now 
For  ever.     Clisson's  heart,  which  may  God  bless ! 
Was  moved  to  pray  for  him,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
Wherefore  I  bring  this  message : 

That  he  waits. 
Still  loving  you,  within  the  little  church 
Whose  windows,  with  the  one  eye  of  the  light 


Over  the  altar,  every  night  behold 

The  great  dim  broken  walls  he  strove  to  keep ! 

There  my  Lord  Clisson  did  his  burial  well. 
Now,  lady,  I  will  go  ;  God  give  you  rest ! 

Alice. 
Thank  Clisson  from  me,  squire,  and  farewell ! 
And  now  to  keep  myself  from  going  mad. 
Christ !    I  have  been  a  many  times  to  church. 
And,  ever  since  my  mother  taught  me  prayers, 
Have  used  them  daily,  but  to  day  I  wish 
To  pray  another  way ;  come  face  to  face, 

0  Christ,  that  I  may  clasp  Your  knees  and  pray, 

1  know  not  what,  at  any  rate  come  now 
From  one  of  many  places  where  You  are  ; 
Either  in  Heaven  amid  thick  angel  wings. 
Or  sitting  on  the  altar  strange  with  gems, 
Or  high  up  in  the  dustiness  of  the  apse  ; 
Let  us  go.  You  and  I,  a  long  way  off, 

To  the  little  damp,  dark,  Poitevin  church  ; 
While  You  sit  on  the  coffin  in  the  dark. 
Will  I  lie  down,  my  face  on  the  bare  stone 
Between  Your  feet,  and  chatter  anything 
I  have  heard  long  ago,  what  matters  it 


So  I  may  keep  You  there,  Your  solemn  face 
And  long  hair  even-flowing  on  each  side, 
Until  You  love  me  well  enough  to  speak. 
And  give  me  comfort ;  yea,  till  o'er  Your  chin, 
And  cloven  red  beard  the  great  tears  roll  down 
In  pity  for  my  misery,  and  I  die, 
Kissed  over  by  You. 

Eh  Guesclin  !  if  I  were 
Like  Countess  Mountfort  now,  that  kiss'd  the  knight. 
Across  the  salt  sea  come  to  fight  for  her  ; 
Ah  !  just  to  go  about  with  many  knights. 
Wherever  you  went,  and  somehow  on  one  day, 
In  a  thick  wood  to  catch  you  off  your  guard. 
Let  you  find,  you  and  your  some  fifty  friends. 
Nothing  but  arrows  wheresoever  you  turn'd. 
Yea,  and  red  crosses,  great  spears  over  them  ; 
And  so,  between  a  lane  of  my  true  men. 
To  walk  up  pale  and  stern  and  tall,  and  with 
My  arms  on  my  surcoat,  and  his  therewith. 
And  then  to  make  you  kneel,  O  knight  Guesclin ; 
And  then — alas  !   alas  !  when  all  is  said. 
What  could  I  do  but  let  you  go  again. 
Being  pitiful  woman  ?  I  get  no  revenge. 
Whatever  happens  ;  and  I  get  no  comfort, 
I  am  but  weak,  and  cannot  move  my  feet, 

102 


But  as  men  bid  me. 

Strange  I  do  not  die. 
Suppose  this  has  not  happened  after  all  ? 
I  will  lean  out  again  and  watch  for  news. 


I  wonder  how  long  I  can  still  feel  thus, 
As  though  I  watch'd  for  news,  feel  as  I  did 
Just  half-an-hour  ago,  before  this  news. 
How  all  the  street  is  humming,  some  men  sing, 
And  some  men  talk ;  some  look  up  at  the  house. 
Then  lay  their  heads  together  and  look  grave ; 
Their  laughter  pains  me  sorely  in  the  heart, 
Their  thoughtful  talking  makes  my  head  turn  round, 
Yea,  some  men  sing,  what  is  it  then  they  sing  ? 
Eh  Launcelot,  and  love  and  fate  and  death ; 
They  ought  to  sing  of  him  who  was  as  wight 
As  Launcelot  or  Wade,  and  yet  availed 
Just  nothing,  but  to  fail  and  fail  and  fail, 
And  so  at  last  to  die  and  leave  me  here, 
Alone  and  wretched  ;  yea,  perhaps  they  will. 
When  many  years  are  past,  make  songs  of  us ; 
God  help  me,  though,  truly  I  never  thought 
That  I  should  make  a  story  in  this  way, 
A  story  that  his  eyes  can  never  see. 
103 


[One  sings  from  outstde,'\ 

Therefore  be  it  believed 
Whatsoever  he  grieved^ 
Whan  his  horse  was  relievedy 
This  Launceloty 

Beat  down  on  his  knee^ 
Right  valiant  was  he, 
God^s  body  to  see. 

Though  he  saw  it  not. 

Right  valiant  to  move. 
But  for  his  sad  love 
The  high  God  above 
Stinted  his  praise, 

Tet  so  he  was  glad 
That  his  son  Lord  Galahad 
That  high  joy  aunce  had 
All  his  life-days. 

Sing  we  therefore  then 
Launcelofs  praise  again. 
For  he  wan  crownes  ten. 
If  he  wan  not  twelve, 
X04 


To  his  death  from  his  birth 
He  was  muckle  of  worthy 
Lay  him  in  the  cold  earthy 

A  long  grave  ye  may  delve, 

Omnes  homines  henedicite  / 
This  last  fitte  ye  may  see 
All  men  pray  for  me. 
Who  made  this  history 
Cunning  and  fairly. 


105 


RAPUNZEL 


107 


RAPUNZEL 

The  Prince,  being  In  the  wood  near  the  tower^  in  the 
evening, 

I  COULD  not  even  think 
What  made  me  weep  that  day, 
When  out  of  the  council-hall 
The  courtiers  pass*d  away, — 

The  Witch. 

Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 
Let  down  your  hair  ! 

Rapunzel. 

Is  it  not  true  that  every  day 
She  climbeth  up  the  same  strange  way, 
Her  scarlet  cloak  spread  broad  and  gay 
Over  my  golden  hair  ? 
109 


The  Prince. 

And  left  me  there  alone, 

To  think  on  what  they  said  ; 

"  Thou  art  a  king's  own  son, 

'Tis  fit  that  thou  should'st  wed/' 

The  Witch. 

Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 
Let  down  your  hair  ! 

Rapunzel. 

When  I  undo  the  knotted  mass, 
Fathoms  below  the  shadows  pass 
Over  my  hair  along  the  grass. 
O  my  golden  hair  ! 

The  Prince. 

I  put  my  armour  on, 

Thinking  on  what  they  said ; 
"  Thou  art  a  king's  own  son, 

'Tis  fit  that  thou  should'st  wed." 

The  Witch. 

Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 
Let  down  your  hair ! 


Rapunzel 
See  on  the  marble  parapet 
I  lean  my  brow,  strive  to  forget 
That  fathoms  below  my  hair  grows  wet 
With  the  dew,  my  golden  hair. 

The  Prince. 
1  rode  throughout  the  town, 

Men  did  not  bow  the  head. 
Though  I  was  the  king's  own  son ; 

"  He  rides  to  dream,"  they  said. 

The  Witch. 
Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 
Wind  up  your  hair  ! 

Rapunzel. 
See,  on  the  marble  parapet 
The  faint  red  stains  with  tears  are  wet ; 
The  long  years  pass,  no  help  comes  yet 
To  free  my  golden  hair. 

The  Prince. 
For  leagues  and  leagues  I  rode, 

Till  hot  my  armour  grew. 
Till  underneath  the  leaves 

I  felt  the  evening  dew. 


The  Witch. 

Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 
Weep  through  your  hair ! 

Rapunzel. 

And  yet — but  I  am  growing  old, 
For  want  of  love  my  heart  is  cold, 
Years  pass,  the  while  I  loose  and  fold 
The  fathoms  of  my  liair. 


I 


The  Prince,  in  the  morning. 
HAVE  heard  tales  of  men,  who  in  the  night 


Saw  paths  of  stars  let  down  to  earth  from  heaven, 
Who  followM  them  until  they  reach'd  the  light 
Wherein  they  dwell,  whose  sins  are  all  forgiven ; 

But  who  went  backward  when  they  saw  the  gate 

Of  diamond,  nor  dared  to  enter  in ; 
All  their  life  long  they  were  content  to  wait, 

Purging  them  patiently  of  every  sin. 

I  must  have  had  a  dream  of  some  such  thing. 
And  now  am  just  awaking  from  that  dream ; 

For  even  in  grey  dawn  those  strange  words  ring 
Through  heart  and  brain,  and  still  I  see  that  gleam. 

For  in  my  dream  at  sunset- time  I  lay 

Beneath  these  beeches,  mail  and  helmet  off. 

Right  full  of  joy  that  I  had  come  away 
From  court ;  for  I  was  patient  of  the  scoff 

113  I 


That  met  me  always  there  from  day  to  day, 
From  any  knave  or  coward  of  them  all ; 

I  was  content  to  live  that  wretched  way ; 
For  truly  till  I  left  the  council-hall, 

And  rode  forth  arm'd  beneath  the  burning  sun. 
My  gleams  of  happiness  were  faint  and  few, 

But  then  I  saw  my  real  life  had  begun, 

And  that  I  should  be  strong  quite  well  I  knew. 

For  I  was  riding  out  to  look  for  love. 

Therefore  the  birds  within  the  thickets  sung. 

Even  in  hot  noontide,  as  I  pass'd,  above 

The  elms  o'ersway'd  with  longing  towards  me  hung. 

Now  some  few  fathoms  from  the  place  where  I 
Lay  in  the  beech- wood,  was  a  tower  fair. 

The  marble  corners  faint  against  the  sky ; 
And  dreamily  I  wonder'd  what  lived  there ; 

Because  it  seem'd  a  dwelling  for  a  queen. 
No  belfry  for  the  swinging  of  great  bells  ; 

No  bolt  or  stone  had  ever  crush'd  the  green 
Shafts,  amber  and  rose  walls,  no  soot  that  tells 

Of  the  Norse  torches  burning  up  the  roofs. 
On  the  flower-carven  marble  could  [I]  see ; 
114 


But  rather  on  all  sides  I  saw  the  proofs 
Of  a  great  loneliness  that  sicken'd  me ; 

Making  me  feel  a  doubt  that  was  not  fear, 

Whether  my  whole  life  long  had  been  a  dream, 

And  I  should  wake  up  soon  in  some  place,  where 
The  piled-up  arms  of  the  fighting  angels  gleam ; 

Not  born  as  yet,  but  going  to  be  born. 

No  naked  baby  as  I  was  at  first. 
But  an  armed  knight,  whom  fire,  hate,  and  scorn 

Could  turn  from  nothing  :  my  heart  almost  burst 

Beneath  the  beeches,  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, 
I  tried  so  hard  to  read  this  riddle  through, 

To  catch  some  golden  cord  that  I  saw  gleaming 
Like  gossamer  against  the  autumn  blue. 

But  while  I  ponder'd  these  things,  from  the  wood 
There  came  a  black-hair'd  woman,  tall  and  bold. 

Who  strode  straight  up  to  where  this  tower  stood. 
And  cried  out  shrilly  words,  whereon  behold — 

The  WircHy  from  the  tower. 

Rapunzel,  Rapunzel, 

Let  down  your  hair  !  • 

115 


The  Prince. 

Ah  Christ !   it  was  no  dream  then,  but  there  stood 
(She  comes  again)  a  maiden  passing  fair, 

Against  the  roof,  with  face  turn'd  to  the  wood, 
Bearing  within  her  arms  waves  of  her  yellow  hair. 

I  read  my  riddle  when  I  saw  her  stand, 

Poor  love  !   her  face  quite  pale  against  her  hair, 

Praying  to  all  the  leagues  of  empty  land 

To  save  her  from  the  woe  she  suffer'd  there. 

To  think  !   they  trod  upon  her  golden  hair 
In  the  witches'  sabbaths ;  it  was  a  delight 

For  these  foul  things,  while  she,  with  thin  feet  bare, 
Stood  on  the  roof  upon  the  winter  night, 

To  plait  her  dear  hair  into  many  plaits. 

And  then,  while  God's  eye  look'd  upon  the  thing. 
In  the  very  likenesses  of  Devil's  bats. 

Upon  the  ends  of  her  long  hair  to  swing. 

And  now  she  stood  above  the  parapet. 

And,  spreading  out  her  arms,  let  her  hair  flow. 

Beneath  that  veil  her  smooth  white  forehead  set 
Upon  the  marble,  more  I  do  not  know ; 
ii6 


Because  before  my  eyes  a  film  of  gold 

Floated,  as  now  it  floats.     O,  unknown  love, 

Would  that  I  could  thy  yellow  stair  behold, 
If  still  thou  standcst  with  lead  roof  above  ! 

The  Witch,  as  she  passes. 

Is  there  any  who  will  dare 
To  climb  up  the  yellow  stair. 
Glorious  Rapunzel's  golden  hair  ? 

The  Prince. 

If  it  would  please  God  make  you  sing  again, 
I  think  that  I  might  very  sweetly  die, 

My  soul  someliow  reach  heaven  in  joyous  pain, 
My  heavy  body  on  the  beech-nuts  lie. 

Now  I  remember  ;  what  a  most  strange  year, 
Most  strange  and  awful,  in  the  beechen  wood 

I  have  pass'd  now ;  I  still  have  a  faint  fear 
It  is  a  kind  of  dream  not  understood. 

I  have  seen  no  one  in  this  wood  except 

The  witch  and  her ;  have  heard  no  human  tones. 

But  when  the  witches'  revelry  has  crept 
Between  the  very  jointing  of  my  bones. 

117 


Ah  !   I  know  now  ;  I  could  not  go  away, 

But  needs  must  stop  to  hear  her  sing  that  song 

She  always  sings  at  dawning  of  the  day. 
I  am  not  happy  here,  for  I  am  strong. 

And  every  morning  do  I  whet  my  sword. 
Yet  Rapunzel  still  weeps  within  the  tower. 

And  still  God  ties  me  down  to  the  green  sward. 
Because  I  cannot  see  the  gold  stair  floating  lower. 

Rapunzel  sings  from  the  tower. 

My  mother  taught  me  prayers 
To  say  when  I  had  need ; 
I  have  so  many  cares. 
That  I  can  take  no  heed 
Of  many  words  in  them  ; 
Christy  bring  me  to  Thy  bliss. 
Mary,  maid  ivithouten  nvem^ 
Keep  me  I     I  am  lone,  I  wis. 
Yet  besides  I  have  made  this 
By  myself;    Give  me  a  kiss, 
Dear  God,  dwelling  tip  in  heaven. 
Also  :   Send  me  a  true  knight, 
Lord  Christ,  with  a  steel  sword,  bright. 
Broad,  and  trenchant;  yea,  and  seven 
iig 


spans  from  hilt  to  pointy  0  Lord! 
And  let  the  handle  of  his  sword 
Be  gold  on  silver^  Lord  in  heaven  / 
Such  a  sivord  as  I  see  gleam 
Sometimes^  when  they  let  me  dream. 

Yea,  besides,  I  have  made  this  : 
Lordy  give  Mary  a  dear  kiss^ 
And  let  gold  Michael^  ivho  looked  downy 
When  I  was  there^  on  Rouen  town 
From  the  spire^  bring  me  that  kiss 
On  a  lily  !  Lordy  do  this  ! 

These  prayers  on  the  dreadful  nights. 
When  the  witches  plait  my  hair, 
And  the  fearfullest  of  sights 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
Will  not  let  me  close  my  eyes, 
I  murmur  often,  mix'd  with  sighs, 
That  my  weak  heart  will  not  hold 
At  some  things  that  I  behold. 
Nay,  not  sighs,  but  quiet  groans. 
That  swell  out  the  little  bones 
Of  my  bosom  ;  till  a  trance 
God  sends  in  middle  of  that  dance. 
And  I  behold  the  countenance 
119 


Of  Michael,  and  can  feel  no  more 
The  bitter  east  wind  biting  sore 
My  naked  feet ;   can  see  no  more 
The  crayfish  on  the  leaden  floor, 
That  mock  with  feeler  and  grim  claw. 

Yea,  often  in  that  happy  trance. 
Beside  the  blessed  countenance 
Of  golden  Michael,  on  the  spire 
Glowing  all  crimson  in  the  fire 
Of  sunset,  I  behold  a  face. 
Which  some  time,  if  God  give  me  grace. 
May  kiss  me  in  this  very  place. 


Evening  In  the  tower, 

Rapunzel. 

IT  grows  half-way  between  the  dark  and  light ; 
Love,  we  have  been  six  hours  here  alone, 
I  fear  that  she  will  come  before  the  night. 
And  if  she  finds  us  thus  we  are  undone. 

The  Prince. 
Nay,  draw  a  little  nearer,  that  your  breath 

May  touch  my  lips,  let  my  cheek  feel  your  arm  ; 
Now  tell  me,  did  you  ever  see  a  death,, 

Or  ever  see  a  man  take  mortal  harm  ? 

Rapunzel. 

Once  came  two  knights  and  fought  with  swords  below. 
And  while  they  fought  I  scarce  could  look  at  all. 

My  head  swam  so,  after  a  moaning  low 

Drew  my  eyes  down ;  I  saw  against  the  wall 


One  knight  lean  dead,  bleeding  from  head  and  breast, 
Yet  seem'd  it  like  a  line  of  poppies  red 

In  the  golden  twilight,  as  he  took  his  rest, 
In  the  dusky  time  he  scarcely  seemed  dead. 

But  the  other,  on  his  face  six  paces  off. 
Lay  moaning,  and  the  old  familiar  name 

He  mutter'd  through  the  grass,  seem'd  like  a  scoff 
Of  some  lost  soul  remembering  his  past  fame. 

His  helm  all  dinted  lay  beside  him  there, 

The  visor-bars  were  twisted  towards  the  face. 

The  crest,  which  was  a  lady  very  fair. 

Wrought  wonderfully,  was  shifted  from  its  place. 

The  shower'd  mail-rings  on  the  speed-walk  lay. 
Perhaps  my  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the  light 

That  blazed  in  the  west,  yet  surely  on  that  day 

Some  crimson  thing  had  changed  the  grass  from  bright 

Pure  green  I  love  so.     But  the  knight  who  died 
Lay  there  for  days  after  the  other  went ; 

Until  one  day  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried, 

"  Fair  knight,  I  see  Sir  Robert  we  were  sent 

"  To  carry  dead  or  living  to  the  king." 

So  the  knights  came  and  bore  him  straight  away 


On  their  lance-truncheons,  such  a  batter'd  thing, 
His  mother  had  not  known  him  on  that  day, 

But  for  his  helm-crest,  a  gold  lady  fair 
Wrought  wonderfully. 

The  Prince. 
Ah,  they  were  brothers  then, 
And  often  rode  together,  doubtless  where 

The  swords  were  thickest,  and  were  loyal  men. 

Until  they  fell  in  these  same  evil  dreams. 

Rapunzel. 
Yea,  love  ;  but  shall  we  not  depart  from  hence  ? 
The  white  moon  groweth  golden  fast,  and  gleams 
Between  the  aspen  stems ;  I  fear — and  yet  a  sense 

Of  fluttering  victory  comes  over  me, 

That  will  not  let  me  fear  aright ;  my  heart — 

Feel  how  it  beats,  love,  strives  to  get  to  thee, 
I  breathe  so  fast  that  my  lips  needs  must  part ; 

Your  breath  swims  round  my  mouth,  but  let  us  go. 

The  Prince. 

I,  Sebald,  also,  pluck  from  off  the  staff 
123 


The  crimson  banner,  let  it  lie  below, 
Above  it  in  the  wind  let  grasses  laugh. 

Now  let  us  go,  love,  down  the  winding  stair, 
With  fingers  intertwined  :  ay,  feel  my  sword  ! 

I  wrought  it  long  ago,  with  golden  hair 
Flowing  about  the  hilts,  because  a  word, 

Sung  by  a  minstrel  old,  had  set  me  dreaming 
Of  a  sv/eet  bow'd-down  face  with  yellow  hair. 

Betwixt  green  leaves  I  used  to  see  it  gleaming, 
A  half- smile  on  the  lips,  though  lines  of  care 

Had  sunk  the  cheeks,  and  made  the  great  eyes  hollow; 

What  other  work  in  all  the  world  had  I, 
But  through  all  turns  of  fate  that  face  to  follow  ? 

But  wars  and  business  kept  me  there  to  die. 

O  child,  I  should  have  slain  my  brother,  too. 
My  brother.  Love,  lain  moaning  in  the  grass, 

Had  I  not  ridden  out  to  look  for  you. 

When  I  had  watch'd  the  gilded  courtiers  pass 

From  the  golden  hall.     But  it  is  strange  your  name 
Is  not  the  same  the  minstrel  sang  of  yore ; 

You  caird  it  Rapunzel,  'tis  not  the  name. 

See,  love,  the  stems  shine  through  the  open  door. 

124 


o 


Morntngy  in  the  woods* 

Rapunzel. 
LOVE  !   me  and  my  unknown  name  you  have 
well  won ; 

The  witch's  name  was  Rapunzel ;  eh!  not  so  sweet? 
No  ! — but  is  this  real  grass,  love,  that  I  tread  upon  ? 
What  call  they  these  blue  flowers  that  lean  across 
my  feet  ? 

The  Prince. 
Dip  down  your  dear  face  in  the  dewy  grass,  O  love  ! 

And  ever  let  the  sweet  slim  harebells,  tenderly  hung, 
Kiss  both  your  parted  lips ;  and  I  will  hang  above. 
And  try  to  sing  that  song  the  dreamy  harper  sung. 

He  sings, 
'Twixt  the  sunlight  and  the  shade 
Float  up  memories  of  my  maid, 
God,  remember  Guendolen ! 
"5 


Gold  or  gems  she  did  not  wear, 
But  her  yellow  rippled  hair, 

Like  a  veil,  hid  Guendolen ! 

'Twixt  the  sunlight  and  the  shade. 
My  rough  hands  so  strangely  made. 
Folded  Golden  Guendolen ; 

Hands  used  to  grip  the  sword-hilt  hard. 
Framed  her  face,  while  on  the  sward 
Tears  fell  down  from  Guendolen. 

Guendolen  now  speaks  no  word. 
Hands  fold  round  about  the  sword. 
Now  no  more  of  Guendolen. 

Only  'twixt  the  light  and  shade 
Floating  memories  of  my  maid 

Make  me  pray  for  Guendolen. 

Guendolen. 

I  kiss  thee,  new-found  name ;  but  I  will  never  go : 
Your  hands  need  never  grip  the  hammer'd  sword  again. 

But  all  my  golden  hair  shall  ever  round  you  flow. 
Between  the  light  and  shade  from  Golden  Guendolen. 


126 


Afterwards^  in  the  Palace. 

King  Sebald. 

I  TO  OK  my  armour  off, 
Put  on  king's  robes  of  gold, 
Over  her  kirtle  green 

The  gold  fell  fold  on  fold. 

The  Witch,  out  of  helL 

Guendolen  !   Guendolen  / 
One  loch  of  hair  I 

Guendolen. 

I  am  so  glad,  for  every  day 
He  kisses  me  much  the  same  way 
As  in  the  tower  ;   under  the  sway 
Of  all  my  golden  hair. 

127 


King  Sebald. 
We  rode  throughout  the  town, 

A  gold  crown  on  my  head, 
Through  all  the  gold-hung  streets, 

"  Praise  God  !  "  the  people  said. 

The  Witch. 

Guendolen  1    Guendolen  ! 
Lend  me  your  hair  ! 

Guendolen. 

Verily,  I  seem  like  one 
Who,  when  day  is  almost  done, 
Through  a  thick  wood  meets  the  sun 
That  blazes  in  her  hair. 

King  Sebald. 

Yea,  at  the  palace  gates, 

"  Praise  God  !  "  the  great  knights  said, 
"  For  Sebald  the  high  king. 

And  the  lady's  golden  head." 

The  Witch. 
Woe  Is  me  /      Guendolen 
Sweeps  back  her  hair, 
iz8 


GUENDOLEN. 

Nothing  wretched  now,  no  screams  ! 
I  was  unhappy  once  in  dreams 
And  even  now  a  harsh  voice  seems 
To  hang  about  my  hair. 

The  Witch. 

Woe  !  that  any  man  could  dare 
to  climb  up  the  yellow  stair, 
Glorious  Guendolen's  golden  hair. 


129 


CONCERNING    GEFFRAY  TESTE 
NOIRE 


131 


CONCERNING  GEFFRAY  TESTE 
NOIRE 

AND  if  you  meet  the  Canon  of  Chimay, 
As  going  to  Ortaise  you  well  may  do, 
Greet  him  from  John  of  Castel  Neuf,  and  say, 
All  that  I  tell  you,  for  all  this  is  true. 

This  GefFray  Teste  Noire  was  a  Gascon  thief, 
Who,  under  shadow  of  the  English  name, 

Pilled  all  such  towns  and  countries  as  were  lief 

To  King  Charles  and  St.  Dennis  ;  thought  it  blame 

If  anything  escaped  him  ;  so  my  lord, 

The  Duke  of  Berry,  sent  Sir  John  Bonne  Lance, 
And  other  knights,  good  players  with  the  sword. 

To  check  this  thief,  and  give  the  land  a  chance. 

Therefore  we  set  our  bastides  round  the  tower 
That  GefFray  held,  the  strong  thief!  like  a  king, 
133 


High  perch'd  upon  the  rock  of  Ventadour, 

Hopelessly  strong  by  Christ !   it  was  mid-spring, 

When  first  I  joined  the  little  army  there 

With  ten  good  spears ;  Auvergne  is  hot,  each  day 

We  sweated  armed  before  the  barrier, 

Good  feats  of  arms  were  done  there  often — eh  ? 

Your  brother  was  slain  there  ?     I  mind  me  now 
A  right  good  man-at-arms,  God  pardon  him ! 

I  think  'twas  Geffray  smote  him  on  the  brow 

With  some  spiked  axe,  and  while  he  totter'd,  dim 

About  the  eyes,  the  spear  of  Alleyne  Roux 

Slipped  through  his  camaille  and  his  throat ;  well, 
well! 

Alleyne  is  paid  now ;  your  name  Alleyne  too  ? 
Mary  !  how  strange — but  this  tale  I  would  tell — 

For  spite  of  all  our  bastides,  damned  blackhead 
Would  ride  abroad  whene'er  he  chose  to  ride. 

We  could  not  stop  him ;  many  a  burgher  bled 
Dear  gold  all  round  his  girdle ;  far  and  wide 

The  villaynes  dwelt  in  utter  misery 

'Twixt  us  and  thief  Sir  Geffray ;  hauled  this  way 
134 


By  Sir  Bonne  Lance  at  one  time,  he  gone  by, 
Down  comes  this  Teste  Noire  on  another  day. 

And  therefore  they  dig  up  the  stone,  grind  corn. 
Hew  wood,  draw  water,  yea,  they  lived,  in  short, 

As  I  said  just  now,  utterly  forlorn. 

Till  this  our  knave  and  blackhead  was  out-fought. 

So  Bonne  Lance  fretted,  thinking  of  some  trap 

Day  after  day,  till  on  a  time  he  said : 
"  John  of  Newcastle,  if  we  have  good  hap. 

We  catch  our  thief  in  two  days."    "  How  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Why,  Sir,  to-day  he  rideth  out  again. 
Hoping  to  take  well  certain  sumpter  mules 

From  Carcassone,  going  with  little  train. 

Because,  forsooth,  he  thinketh  us  mere  fools  ; 

"  But  if  we  set  an  ambush  in  some  wood. 
He  is  but  dead ;  so.  Sir,  take  thirty  spears 

To  Verville  forest,  if  it  seem  you  good." 
Then  felt  I  like  the  horse  in  Job,  who  hears 

The  dancing  trumpet  sound,  and  we  went  forth  ; 

And  my  red  lion  on  the  spear-head  flapped, 
As  faster  than  the  cool  wind  we  rode  North, 

Towards  the  wood  of  Verville ;   thus  it  happed. 
^35 


We  rode  a  soft  pace  on  that  day  while  spies 
Got  news  about  Sir  Geoffrey ;  the  red  wine 

Under  the  road-side  bush  was  clear  ;  the  flies, 
The  dragon-flies  I  mind  me  most,  did  shine 

In  brighter  arms  than  ever  I  put  on ; 

So — "  Geffray,"  said  our  spies, "  would  pass  that  way 
Next  day  at  sundown ;  "  then  he  must  be  won ; 

And  so  we  enter' d  Verville  wood  next  day. 

In  the  afternoon ;  through  it  the  highway  runs, 
'Twixt  copses  of  green  hazel,  very  thick. 

And  underneath,  with  glimmering  of  suns, 
The  primroses  are  happy  ;  the  dews  lick 

The  soft  green  moss.     *<  Put  cloths  about  your  arms. 
Lest  they  should  glitter  ;  surely  they  will  go 

In  a  long  thin  line,  watchful  for  alarms. 
With  all  their  carriages  of  booty,  so — 

"  Lay  down  my  pennon  in  the  grass — Lord  God  ! 

What  have  we  lying  here  ?  will  they  be  cold, 
I  wonder,  being  so  bare,  above  the  sod. 

Instead  of  under  ?     This  was  a  knight  too,  fold 

"  Lying  on  fold  of  ancient  rusted  mail ; 
No  plate  at  all,  gold  rowels  to  the  spurs, 
136 


And  see  the  quiet  gleam  of  turquoise  pale 
Along  the  ceinture ;  but  the  long  time  blurs 

"  Even  the  tinder  of  his  coat  to  nought, 

Except  these  scraps  of  leather ;  see  how  white 

The  skull  is,  loose  within  the  coif!     He  fought 
A  good  fight,  maybe,  ere  he  was  slain  quite. 

**  No  armour  on  the  legs  too  ;   strange  in  faith — 
A  little  skeleton  for  a  knight  though — ah ! 

This  one  is  bigger,  truly  without  scathe 

His  enemies  escaped  not — ribs  driven  out  far, — 

"  That  must  have  reach'd  the  heart,  I  doubt — how  now. 
What  say  you,  Aldovrand — a  woman  ?  why  ?  " 

"  Under  the  coif  a  gold  wreath  on  the  brow, 
Yea,  see  the  hair  not  gone  to  powder,  lie, 

"  Golden,  no  doubt,  once — yea,  and  very  small — 
This  for  a  knight ;  but  for  a  dame,  my  lord. 

These  loose-hung  bones  seem  shapely  still,  and  tall, — 
Didst  ever  see  a  woman's  bones,  my  lord  ?  '* 

Often,  God  help  me  !      I  remember  when 

I  was  a  simple  boy,  fifteen  years  old. 
The  Jacquerie  froze  up  the  blood  of  men 

With  their  fell  deeds,  not  fit  now  to  be  told : 
137 


God  help  again  !  we  enterM  Beauvais  town, 
Slaying  them  fast,  whereto  I  helped,  mere  boy 

As  I  was  then ;  we  gentles  cut  them  down, 
These  burners  and  defilers,  with  great  joy. 

Reason  for  that,  too,  in  the  great  church  there 
These  fiends  had  lit  a  fire,  that  soon  went  out, 

The  church  at  Beauvais  being  so  great  and  fair — 
My  father,  who  was  by  me,  gave  a  shout 

Between  a  beast's  howl  and  a  woman's  scream, 

Then,  panting,  chuckled   to  me  ;    "  John  !    look  ! 
look! 

Count  the  dames'  skeletons !  "  from  some  bad  dream 
Like  a  man  just  awaked,  my  father  shook ; 

And  I,  being  faint  with  smelling  the  burnt  bones, 
And  very  hot  with  fighting  down  the  street, 

And  sick  of  such  a  life,  fell  down,  with  groans 
My  head  went  weakly  nodding  to  my  feet. — 

— ^An  arrow  had  gone  through  her  tender  throat, 
And  her  right  wrist  was  broken  ;  then  I  saw 

The  reason  why  she  had  on  that  war-coat. 
Their  story  came  out  clear  without  a  flaw ; 

For  when  he  knew  that  they  were  being  waylaid. 
He  threw  it  over  her,  yea,  hood  and  all ; 

138 


Whereby  he  was  much  hackM,  while  they  were  stay*d 
By  those  their  murderers  ;  many  an  one  did  fall 

Beneath  his  arm,  no  doubt,  so  that  he  clear'd 
Their  circle,  bore  his  death-wound  out  of  it ; 

But  as  they  rode,  some  archer  least  afFear'd 
Drew  a  strong  bow,  and  thereby  she  was  hit. 

Still  as  he  rode  he  knew  not  she  was  dead. 

Thought  her  but  fainted  from  her  broken  wrist. 

He  bound  with  his  great  leathern  belt — she  bled  ? 
Who  knows !  he  bled  too,  neither  was  there  miss'd 

The  beating  of  her  heart,  his  heart  beat  well 
For  both  of  them,  till  here,  within  this  wood. 

He  died  scarce  sorry ;  easy  this  to  tell ; 

After  these  years  the  flowers  forget  their  blood. 

How  could  it  be  ?  never  before  that  day. 

However  much  a  soldier  I  might  be. 
Could  I  look  on  a  skeleton  and  say 

I  care  not  for  it,  shudder  not — now  see, 

Over  those  bones  I  sat  and  pored  for  hours. 

And  thought,  and  dream'd,  and  still  I  scarce  could  see 

The  small  white  bones  that  lay  upon  the  flowers. 
But  evermore  I  saw  the  lady  ;   she 
139 


With  her  dear  gentle  walking  leading  in, 

By  a  chain  of  silver  twined  about  her  wrists, 

Her  loving  knight,  mounted  and  arm'd  to  win 
Great  honour  for  her,  fighting  in  the  lists. 

O  most  pale  face,  that  brings  such  joy  and  sorrow 
Into  men's  hearts — yea,  too,  so  piercing  sharp 

That  joy  is,  that  it  marcheth  nigh  to  sorrow 
For  ever — like  an  overwinded  harp. 

Your  face  must  hurt  me  always ;  pray  you  now, 
Does  it  not  hurt  you  too  ?  seemeth  some  pain 

To  hold  you  always,  pain  to  hold  your  brow 
So  smooth,  unwrinkled  ever  ;  yea  again, 

Your  long  eyes  where  the  lids  seem  like  to  drop. 
Would  you  not,  lady,  were  they  shut  fast,  feel 

Far  merrier  ?  there  so  high  they  will  not  stop. 
They  are  most  sly  to  glide  forth  and  to  steal 

Into  my  heart ;   /  kiss  their  soft  lids  there^ 
And  in  green  gardens  scarce  can  stop  my  lips 

From  wandering  on  your  face  ^  hut  that  your  hair 
Falls  down  and  tangles  mcy  hack  my  face  slips. 

Or  say  your  mouth — I  saw  you  drink  red  wine 
Once  at  a  feast ;  how  slowly  it  sank  in, 

140 


As  though  you  fear'd  that  some  wild  fate  might  twine 
Within  that  cup,  and  slay  you  for  a  sin. 

And  when  you  talk  your  lips  do  arch  and  move 
In  such  wise  that  a  language  new  I  know 

Besides  their  sound ;  they  quiver,  too,  with  love 
When  you  are  standing  silent ;  know  this,  too, 

I  saw  you  kissing  once,  like  a  curved  sword 
That  bites  with  all  its  edge,  did  your  lips  lie. 

Curled  gently,  slowly,  long  time  could  afford 
For  caught-up  breathings ;  like  a  dying  sigh 

They  gathered  up  their  lines  and  went  away. 
And  still  kept  twitching  with  a  sort  of  smile. 

As  likely  to  be  weeping  presently, — 

Your  hands  too— how  I  watch'd  them  all  the  while  ! 

"  Cry  out  St.  Peter  now,"  quoth  Aldovrand  ; 

I  cried  "  St.  Peter,"  broke  out  from  the  wood 
With  all  my  spears  ;  we  met  them  hand  to  hand 

And  shortly  slew  them ;  natheless,  by  the  rood. 

We  caught  not  blackhead  then,  or  any  day ; 

Months  after  that  he  died  at  last  in  bed. 
From  a  wound  pick'd  up  at  a  barrier-fray 

That  same  year's  end ;  a  steel  bolt  in  the  head, 
141 


And  much  bad  living  kill'd  Teste  Noire  at  last ; 

John  Froissart  knoweth  he  is  dead  by  now, 
No  doubt,  but  knoweth  not  this  tale  just  past ; 

Perchance  then  you  can  tell  him  what  I  show. 

In  my  new  castle,  down  beside  the  Eure, 
There  is  a  little  chapel  of  squared  stone, 

Painted  inside  and  out ;  in  green  nook  pure 
There  did  I  lay  them,  every  wearied  bone ; 

And  over  it  they  lay,  with  stone-white  hands 

Clasped  fast  together,  hair  made  bright  with  gold ; 

This  Jaques  Picard,  known  through  many  lands. 
Wrought  cunningly ;  he's  dead  now — I  am  old. 


142 


A  GOOD  KNIGHT  IN  PRISON 

Sir  Guy,  being  in  the  court  of  a  Pagan  castle, 

THIS  castle  where  I  dwell,  it  stands 
A  long  way  ofF  from  Christian  lands, 
A  long  way  ofF  my  lady's  hands, 
A  long  way  off  the  aspen  trees, 
And  murmur  of  the  lime-tree  bees. 

But  down  the  Valley  of  the  Rose 
My  lady  often  hawking  goes. 
Heavy  of  cheer  ;  oft  turns  behind. 
Leaning  towards  the  western  wind. 
Because  it  bringeth  to  her  mind 
Sad  whisperings  of  happy  times. 
The  face  of  him  who  sings  these  rhymes. 

King  Guilbert  rides  beside  her  there. 
Bends  low  and  calls  her  very  fair, 
H3 


And  strives,  by  pulling  down  his  hair, 
To  hide  from  my  dear  lady's  ken 
The  grisly  gash  I  gave  him,  when 
I  cut  him  down  at  Camelot ; 
However  he  strives,  he  hides  it  not, 
That  tourney  will  not  be  forgot. 
Besides,  it  is  King  Guilbert's  lot. 
Whatever  he  says  she  answers  not. 

Now  tell  me,  you  that  are  in  love, 
From  the  king's  son  to  the  wood-dove, 
Which  is  the  better,  he  or  I  ? 

For  this  king  means  that  I  should  die 
In  this  lone  Pagan  castle,  where 
The  flowers  droop  in  the  bad  air 
On  the  September  evening. 

Look,  now  I  take  mine  ease  and  sing, 
Counting  as  but  a  little  thing 
The  foolish  spite  of  a  bad  king. 

For  these  vile  things  that  hem  me  in. 
These  Pagan  beasts  who  live  in  sin. 
The  sickly  flowers  pale  and  wan. 
The  grim  blue-bearded  castellan, 

144 


The  stanchions  half  worn-out  with  rust, 
Where  to  their  banner  vile  they  trust — 
Why,  all  these  things  I  hold  them  just 
Like  dragons  in  a  missal-book, 
Wherein,  whenever  we  may  look, 
We  see  no  horror,  yea,  delight 
We  have,  the  colours  are  so  bright ; 
Likewise  we  note  the  specks  of  white, 
And  the  great  plates  of  burnished  gold. 

Just  so  this  Pagan  castle  old, 
And  everything  I  can  see  there. 
Sick-pining  in  the  marshland  air, 
I  note ;  I  will  go  over  now, 
Like  one  who  paints  with  knitted  brow. 
The  flowers  and  all  things  one  by  one, 
From  the  snail  on  the  wall  to  the  setting  sun. 

Four  great  walls,  and  a  little  one 
That  leads  down  to  the  barbican, 
Which  walls  with  many  spears  they  man, 
When  news  comes  to  the  castellan 
Of  Launcelot  being  in  the  land. 

And  as  I  sit  here,  close  at  hand 
Four  spikes  of  sad  sick  sunflowers  stand, 
H5 


The  castellan  with  a  long  wand 
Cuts  down  their  leaves  as  he  goes  by, 
Ponderingly,  with  screw'd-up  eye, 
And  fingers  twisted  in  his  beard — 
Nay,  was  it  a  knight's  shout  I  heard  ? 
I  have  a  hope  makes  me  afeard  : 
It  cannot  be,  but  if  some  dream 
Just  for  a  minute  made  me  deem 
I  saw  among  the  flowers  there 
My  lady's  face  with  long  red  hair. 
Pale,  ivory-colour'd  dear  face  come, 
As  I  was  wont  to  see  her  some 
Fading  September  afternoon. 
And  kiss  me,  saying  nothing,  soon 
To  leave  me  by  myself  again  ; 
Could  I  get  this  by  longing :  vain  ! 

The  castellan  is  gone  :  I  see 
On  one  broad  yellow  flower  a  bee 
Drunk  with  much  honey — 

Christ !  again. 
Some  distant  knight's  voice  brings  me  pain, 
I  thought  I  had  forgot  to  feel, 
I  never  heard  the  blissful  steel 
These  ten  years  past ;  year  after  year 
146 


Through  all  my  hopeless  sojourn  here, 
No  Christian  pennon  has  been  near ; 
Laus  Deo  !   the  dragging  wind  draws  on 
Over  the  marshes,  battle  won, 
Knights'  shouts,  and  axes  hammering, 
Yea,  quicker  now  the  dint  and  ring 
Of  flying  hoofs ;  ah  !   castellan. 
When  they  come  back  count  man  for  man. 
Say  whom  you  miss. 

The  Pagans,  from  the  battlements. 
Mahound  to  aid ! 
Why  flee  ye  so  like  men  dismay'd  ? 

The  Pagans,  from  without. 
Nay,  haste  !  for  here  is  Launcelot, 
Who  follows  quick  upon  us,  hot 
And  shouting  with  his  men-at-arms. 

Sir  Guy. 

Also  the  Pagans  raise  alarms, 
And  ring  the  bells  for  fear ;  at  last 
My  prison  walls  will  be  well  past. 

Sir  Launcelot,  from  outside. 
Ho  !   in  the  name  of  the  Trinity, 
Let  down  the  drawbridge  quick  to  me, 
147 


And  open  doors,  that  I  may  see 
Guy  the  good  knight. 

The  Pagans,  from  the  battlements* 

Nay,  Launcelot, 
With  mere  big  words  ye  win  us  not. 

Sir  Launcelot. 
Bid  Miles  bring  up  la  perriere. 
And  archers  clear  the  vile  walls  there. 
Bring  back  the  notches  to  the  ear, 
Shoot  well  together  !   God  to  aid ! 
These  miscreants  will  be  well  paid. 

Hurrah  !   all  goes  together ;  Miles 
Is  good  to  win  my  lady's  smiles 
For  his  good  shooting — Launcelot ! 
On  knights  a-pace  !  this  game  is  hot ! 

Sir   Guy  sayeth  afterwards. 
I  said,  I  go  to  meet  her  now. 
And  saying  so,  I  felt  a  blow 
From  some  clench 'd  hand  across  my  brow, 
And  fell  down  on  the  sunflowers 
Just  as  a  hammering  smote  my  ears, 
After  which  this  I  felt  in  sooth ; 
My  bare  hands  throttling  without  ruth 
148 


The  hairy-throated  castellan ; 

Then  a  grim  fight  with  these  that  ran 

To  slay  me,  while  I  shouted,  "  God 

For  the  Lady  Mary  !  "  deep  I  trod 

That  evening  in  my  own  red  blood ; 

Nevertheless  so  stiff  I  stood. 

That  when  the  knights  burst  the  old  wood 

Of  the  castle-doors,  I  was  not  dead. 

I  kiss  the  Lady  Mary's  head. 
Her  lips,  and  her  hair  golden  red, 
Because  to-day  we  have  been  wed. 


149 


OLD  LOVE 

"  'V^OU  must  be  very  old,  Sir  Giles/' 

X        I  said  ;   he  said  :   "  Yea,  very  old  : 
Whereat  the  mournfullest  of  smiles 

Crossed  his  dry  skin  with  many  a  fold. 

"  They  hammer'd  out  my  basnet  point 

Into  a  round  salade,'*  he  said, 
"  The  basnet  being  quite  out  of  joint, 

Natheless  the  salade  rasps  my  head." 

He  gazed  at  the  great  fire  awhile : 

<*  And  you  are  getting  old.  Sir  John ;  " 

(He  said  this  with  that  cunning  smile 

That  was  most  sad ;)   "we  both  wear  on, 

"  Knights  come  to  court  and  look  at  me, 
With  eyebrows  up,  except  my  lord, 
150 


And  my  dear  lady,  none  I  see 

That  know  the  ways  of  my  old  sword." 

(My  lady  !  at  that  word  no  pang 

Stopp'd  all  my  blood.)     "  But  tell  me,  John, 
Is  it  quite  true  that  Pagans  hang 

So  thick  about  the  east,  that  on 

*'  The  eastern  sea  no  Venice  flag 

Can  fly  unpaid  for  ?  "     "  True,"  I  said. 

"  And  in  such  way  the  miscreants  drag 
Christ's  cross  upon  the  ground,  I  dread 

That  Constantine  must  fall  this  year." 

Within  my  heart ;   "  These  things  are  small ; 

This  is  not  small,  that  things  outwear 
I  thought  were  made  for  ever,  yea,  all, 

"  All  things  go  soon  or  late  ;  "  I  said — 
I  saw  the  duke  in  court  next  day ; 

Just  as  before,  his  grand  great  head 
Above  his  gold  robes  dreaming  lay. 

Only  his  face  was  paler  ;   there 

I  saw  his  duchess  sit  by  him ; 
And  she — she  was  changed  more  ;  her  hair 

Before  my  eyes  that  used  to  swim, 
151 


And  make  me  dizzy  with  great  bliss 
Once  when  I  used  to  watch  her  sit — 

Her  hair  is  bright  still,  yet  it  is 

As  though  some  dust  were  thrown  on  it. 

Her  eyes  are  shallower,  as  though 

Some  grey  glass  were  behind  ;  her  brow 

And  cheeks  the  straining  bones  show  through, 
Are  not  so  good  for  kissing  now. 

Her  lips  are  drier  now  she  is 

A  great  duke's  wife  these  many  years, 
They  will  not  shudder  with  a  kiss 

As  once  they  did,  being  moist  with  tears. 

Also  her  hands  have  lost  that  way 
Of  clinging  that  they  used  to  have  ; 

They  look'd  quite  easy,  as  they  lay 
Upon  the  silken  cushions  brave 

With  broidery  of  the  apples  green 

My  Lord  Duke  bears  upon  his  shield. 

Her  face,  alas !  that  I  have  seen 
Look  fresher  than  an  April  field, 

This  is  all  gone  now ;  gone  also 

Her  tender  walking ;  when  she  walks 

152 


She  is  most  queenly  I  well  know. 
And  she  is  fair  still — as  the  stalks 

Of  faded  summer-lilies  are, 
So  is  she  grown  now  unto  me 

This  spring-time,  when  the  flowers  star 
The  meadows,  birds  sing  wonderfully. 

I  warrant  once  she  used  to  cling 
About  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  so, 

And  then  his  coming  step  would  ring 
Joy-bells  for  her, — some  time  ago. 

Ah  !   sometimes  like  an  idle  dream 
That  hinders  true  life  overmuch. 

Sometimes  like  a  lost  heaven,  these  seem- 
This  love  is  not  so  hard  to  smutch. 


153 


THE   GILLIFLOWER   OF    GOLD 

A  GOLDEN  gilliflower  to-day 
I  wore  upon  my  helm  away, 
And  won  the  prize  of  this  tourney. 
Hah!  hah!  la  Itelle jaune giroflee. 

However  well  Sir  Giles  might  sit, 
His  sun  was  weak  to  wither  it. 
Lord  Miles's  blood  was  dew  on  it : 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Although  my  spear  in  splinters  flew 
From  John's  steel-coat  my  eye  was  true  ; 
I  wheeFd  about,  and  cried  for  you. 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

Yea,  do  not  doubt  my  heart  was  good, 
Though  my  sword  flew  like  rotten  wood. 
To  shout,  although  I  scarcely  stood, 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 
154 


My  hand  was  steady  too,  to  take 
My  axe  from  round  my  neck,  and  break 
John's  steel-coat  up  for  my  love's  sake. 
Hah  /  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  gtrqflee. 

When  I  stood  in  my  tent  again, 
Arming  afresh,  I  felt  a  pain 
Take  hold  of  me,  I  was  so  fain — 
Hah  /  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

To  hear  :   "  Honneur  auxjils  des  preux  /  " 
Right  in  my  ears  again,  and  shew 
The  gilliflower  blossom'd  new. 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

The  Sieur  Guillaume  against  me  came. 
His  tabard  bore  three  points  of  flame 
From  a  red  heart :  with  little  blame — 
Hah  I  hah  /   la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Our  tough  spears  crackled  up  like  straw ; 
He  was  the  first  to  turn  and  draw 
His  sword,  that  had  nor  speck  nor  flaw,- 
Hah  !  hah  I  la  belle  jaune  g'lroflee. 

But  I  felt  weaker  than  a  maid, 
And  my  brain,  dizzied  and  afraid, 
155 


Within  my  helm  a  fierce  tune  play'd,— 
Hah  !   hah  !   la  belle  jaune  girqflee* 

Until  I  thought  of  your  dear  head, 
Bow'd  to  the  gilliflower  bed, 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red  ; — 
Hah!   hah!   la  belle  jaune  girqfiee. 

Crash  !   how  the  swords  met,  ^^giroflee!  " 
The  fierce  tune  in  my  helm  would  play, 
^^  La  belle  !   la  belle  !  jaune  girqfiee  !  " 
Hah  !  hah  !   la  belle  jaune  ghqflee. 

Once  more  the  great  swords  met  again, 
"  La  belle  !  la  belle  !  "  but  who  fell  then  ? 
Le  Sieur  Guillaume,  who  struck  down  ten — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  giroflee. 

And  as  with  mazed  and  unarm'd  face. 
Toward  my  own  crown  and  the  Queen's  place. 
They  led  me  at  a  gentle  pace — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqfiee. 

I  almost  saw  your  quiet  head 
Bow'd  o'er  the  gilliflower  bed. 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red — 
Hah  !   hah  !   la  belle  jaune  girqfiee, 

156 


SHAMEFUL    DEATH 

THERE  were  four  of  us  about  that  bed  ; 
The  mass-priest  knelt  at  the  side, 
I  and  his  mother  stood  at  the  head, 

Over  his  feet  lay  the  bride  ; 
We  were  quite  sure  that  he  was  dead, 
Though  his  eyes  were  open  wide. 

He  did  not  die  in  the  night, 

He  did  not  die  in  the  day, 
But  in  the  morning  twilight 

His  spirit  pass'd  away, 
When  neither  sun  nor  moon  was  bright, 

And  the  trees  were  merely  grey. 

He  was  not  slain  with  the  sword, 
Knight's  axe,  or  the  knightly  spear, 

Yet  spoke  he  never  a  word 
After  he  came  in  here  ; 
'57 


I  cut  away  the  cord 

From  the  neck  of  my  brother  dear. 

He  did  not  strike  one  blow, 
For  the  recreants  came  behind, 

In  a  place  where  the  hornbeams  grow, 
A  path  right  hard  to  find. 

For  the  hornbeam  boughs  swing  so, 
That  the  twilight  makes  it  blind. 

They  lighted  a  great  torch  then. 
When  his  arms  were  pinion'd  fast. 

Sir  John  the  knight  of  the  Fen, 
Sir  Guy  of  the  Dolorous  Blast, 

With  knights  threescore  and  ten. 
Hung  brave  Lord  Hugh  at  last. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten. 

And  my  hair  is  all  turn'd  grey. 

But  I  met  Sir  John  of  the  Fen 
Long  ago  on  a  summer  day, 

And  am  glad  to  think  of  the  moment  when 
I  took  his  life  away. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten. 

And  my  strength  is  mostly  pass'd, 
158 


But  long  ago  I  and  my  men, 

When  the  sky  was  overcast, 
And  the  smoke  rolFd  over  the  reeds  of  the  fen, 

Slew  Guy  of  the  Dolorous  Blast. 

And  now,  knights  all  of  you, 

I  pray  you  pray  for  Sir  Hugh, 
A  good  knight  and  a  true. 

And  for  Alice,  his  wife,  pray  too. 


159 


THE   EVE   OF   CRECY 

GOLD  on  her  head,  and  gold  on  her  feet, 
And  gold  where  the  hems  of  her  kirtle  meet. 
And  a  golden  girdle  round  my  sweet ; — 
M  !   quelle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Margaret's  maids  are  fair  to  see. 
Freshly  dressed  and  pleasantly ; 
Margaret's  hair  falls  down  to  her  knee  ; — 
Ah  !  qu^elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, 

If  I  were  rich  I  would  kiss  her  feet, 
I  would  kiss  the  place  where  the  gold  hems  meet, 
And  the  golden  girdle  round  my  sweet — 
Ah  /  qu^elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, 

Ah  me  !   I  have  never  touch'd  her  hand  ; 
When  the  arriere-ban  goes  through  the  land, 
Six  basnets  under  my  pennon  stand  ; — 
Ah  !  qu^elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, 
1 60 


And  many  an  one  grins  under  his  hood : 
"  Sir  Lambert  de  Bois,  with  all  his  men  good, 
Has  neither  food  nor  firewood  ;  " — 
Jlh  !  quelle  est  belle  La  Marguerite* 

If  I  were  rich  I  would  kiss  her  feet, 
And  the  golden  girdle  of  my  sweet, 
And  thereabouts  where  the  gold  hems  meet ; — 
Ah  !  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Yet  even  now  it  is  good  to  think. 
While  my  few  poor  varlets  grumble  and  drink 
In  my  desolate  hall,  where  the  fires  sink, — 
Ah  /  quelle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

Of  Margaret  sitting  glorious  there, 
In  glory  of  gold  and  glory  of  hair. 
And  glory  of  glorious  face  most  fair  ;  — 
Ah  /  quelle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, 

Likewise  to-night  I  make  good  cheer, 
Because  this  battle  draweth  near  : 
For  what  have  I  to  lose  or  fear  ? — 
Ah  !  qu^elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, 

For,  look  you,  my  horse  is  good  to  prance, 
A  right  fair  measure  in  this  war-dance, 

l6l  M 


Before  the  eyes  of  Philip  of  France  ; — 
Ah  /  qu^elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite, 

And  some  time  it  may  hap,  perdie, 
While  my  new  towers  stand  up  three  and  three, 
And  my  hall  gets  painted  fair  to  see — 
Ah  /  quelle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 

That  folks  say:  "Times  change,  by  the  rood, 
For  Lambert,  banneret  of  the  wood, 
Has  heaps  of  food  and  firewood ; — 

Ah  /  quelle  est  belle  La  Marguerite  ; — 

"  And  wonderful  eyes,  too,  under  the  hood 
Of  a  damsel  of  right  noble  blood  :  " 
St.  Ives,  for  Lambert  of  the  wood  !  — 
Ah  /  qu'elle  est  belle  La  Marguerite. 


162 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   GOD 

«  QWERVE  to  the  left,  son  Roger,"  he  said, 
1^"  When  you  catch  his  eyes  through  the  helm 
Swerve  to  the  left,  then  out  at  his  head, 
And  the  Lord  God  give  you  joy  of  it !  " 

The  blue  owls  on  my  father's  hood 

Were  a  little  dimm'd  as  I  turned  away ; 

This  giving  up  of  blood  for  blood 
Will  finish  here  somehow  to-day. 

So — when  I  walk'd  out  from  the  tent, 
Their  howling  almost  blinded  me  ; 

Yet  for  all  that  I  was  not  bent 
By  any  shame.     Hard  by,  the  sea 

Made  a  noise  like  the  aspens  where 
We  did  that  wrong,  but  now  the  place 

Is  very  pleasant,  and  the  air 

Blows  cool  on  any  passer's  face. 
163 


And  all  the  wrong  is  gathered  now 

Into  the  circle  of  these  lists — 
Yea,  howl  out,  butchers  !   tell  me  how 

His  hands  were  cut  off  at  the  wrists  ; 

And  how  Lord  Roger  bore  his  face 
A  league  above  his  spear-point,  high 

Above  the  owls,  to  that  strong  place 
Among  the  waters — yea,  yea,  cry  : 

"  What  a  brave  champion  we  have  got ! 

Sir  Oliver,  the  flower  of  all 
The  Hainault  knights.''     The  day  being  hot, 

He  sat  beneath  a  broad  white  pall. 

White  linen  over  all  his  steel ; 

What  a  good  knight  he  look'd  !  his  sword 
Laid  thwart  his  knees ;  he  liked  to  feel 

Its  steadfast  edge  clear  as  his  word. 

And  he  look'd  solemn  ;  how  his  love 
Smiled  whitely  on  him,  sick  with  fear  ! 

How  all  the  ladies  up  above 

Twisted  their  pretty  hands  !   so  near 

The  fighting  was — Ellayne  !   EUayne  ! 
They  cannot  love  like  you  can,  who 
164 


J 


Would  burn  your  hands  off,  if  that  pain 
Could  win  a  kiss — am  I  not  true 

To  you  for  ever  ?  therefore  I 

Do  not  fear  death  or  anything. 
If  I  should  limp  home  wounded,  why, 

When  I  lay  sick  you  would  but  sing, 

And  sooth  me  into  quiet  sleep. 

If  they  spat  on  the  recreaunt  knight, 
Threw  stones  at  him,  and  cursed  him  deep, 

Why  then — what  then  ;  your  hand  would  light 

So  gently  on  his  drawn-up  face. 

And  you  would  kiss  him,  and  in  soft 

Cool  scented  clothes  would  lap  him,  pace 
The  quiet  room  and  weep  oft, — oft 

Would  turn  and  smile,  and  brush  his  cheek 
With  your  sweet  chin  and  mouth  ;  and  in 

The  order'd  garden  you  would  seek 
The  biggest  roses — any  sin. 

And  these  say  :  "  No  more  now  my  knight, 
Or  God's  knight  any  longer  " — you. 

Being  than  they  so  much  more  white, 
So  much  more  pure  and  good  and  true, 

.65 


Will  cling  to  me  for  ever — there, 
Is  not  that  wrong  turn'd  right  at  last 

Through  all  these  years,  and  I  wash'd  clean  ? 
Say,  yea,  EUayne ;  the  time  is  past, 

Since  on  that  Christmas-day  last  year 

Up  to  your  feet  the  fire  crept. 
And  the  smoke  through  the  brown  leaves  sere 

Blinded  your  dear  eyes  that  you  wept ; 

Was  it  not  I  that  caught  you  then. 
And  kiss'd  you  on  the  saddle-bow  ? 

Did  not  the  blue  owl  mark  the  men 

Whose  spears  stood  like  the  corn  a-row  ? 

This  Oliver  is  a  right  good  knight. 
And  must  needs  beat  me,  as  I  fear, 

Unless  I  catch  him  in  the  fight. 

My  father's  crafty  way — "  John,  here  ! 

"  Bring  up  the  men  from  the  south  gate. 

To  help  me  if  I  fall  or  win, 
For  even  if  I  beat,  their  hate 

Will  grow  to  more  than  this  mere  grin." 


i66 


u 


THE   LITTLE   TOWER 

P  and  away  through  the  drifting  rain ! 
Let  us  ride  to  the  Little  Tower  again, 


Up  and  away  from  the  council-board  ! 
Do  on  the  hauberk,  gird  on  the  sword. 

The  king  is  blind  with  gnashing  his  teeth, 
Change  gilded  scabbard  to  leather  sheath  : 

Though  our  arms  are  wet  with  the  slanting  rain, 
This  is  joy  to  ride  to  my  love  again  : 

I  laugh  in  his  face  when  he  bids  me  yield ; 
Who  knows  one  field  from  the  other  field, 

For  the  grey  rain  driveth  all  astray  ? — 

Which  way  through  the  floods,  good  carle,  I  pray  ? 

"  The  left  side  yet !  the  left  side  yet ! 
Till  your  hand  strikes  on  the  bridge  parapet." 
167 


"  Yea  so  :  the  causeway  holdeth  good 
Under  the  water  ? "   "  Hard  as  wood  ; 

Right  away  to  the  uplands  ;  speed,  good  knight.' ' 
Seven  hours  yet  before  the  light. 

Shake  the  wet  ofF  the  upland  road  ; 
My  taberd  has  grown  a  heavy  load. 

What  matter  ?  up  and  down  hill  after  hill  ; 
Dead  grey  night  for  five  hours  still. 

The  hill-road  droppeth  lower  again, 
Lower,  down  to  the  poplar  plain. 

No  furlong  farther  for  us  to-night, 
The  Little  Tower  draweth  in  sight ; 

They  are  ringing  the  bells,  and  the  torches  glare. 
Therefore  the  roofs  of  wet  slate  stare. 

There  she  stands,  and  her  yellow  hair  slantingly 
Drifts  the  same  way  that  the  rain  goes  by. 

Who  will  be  faithful  to  us  to-day, 

With  little  but  hard  glaive-strokes  for  pay  ? 

The  grim  king  fumes  at  the  council-board : 
^'  Three  more  days,  and  then  the  sword  ; 
i68 


Three  more  days,  and  my  sword  through  his  head ; 
And  above  his  white  brows,  pale  and  dead, 

A  paper  crown  on  the  top  of  the  spire  ; 
And  for  her  the  stake  and  the  witches'  fire." 

Therefore  though  it  be  Jong  ere  day, 
Take  axe  and  pick  and  spade,  I  pray. 

Break  the  dams  down  all  over  the  plain : 
God  send  us  three  more  days  such  rain  : 

Block  all  the  upland  roads  with  trees  ; 
The  Little  Tower  with  no  great  ease 

Is  won,  I  warrant ;  bid  them  bring 
Much  sheep  and  oxen,  everything 

The  spits  are  wont  to  turn  with  ;  wine 
And  wheaten  bread,  that  we  may  dine 

In  plenty  each  day  of  the  siege ; 

Good  friends,  ye  know  me  no  hard  liege ; 

My  lady  is  right  fair,  see  ye  ! 

Pray  God  to  keep  you  frank  and  free. 

Love  Isabeau,  keep  goodly  cheer  ; 
The  Little  Tower  will  stand  well  here 
169 


Many  a  year  when  we  are  dead, 
And  over  it  our  green  and  red, 
Barred  with  the  Lady's  golden  head  ; 
From  mere  old  age  when  we  are  dead. 


17Q 


THE   SAILING   OF   THE    SWORD 

ACROSS  the  empty  garden-beds, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 
I  scarcely  saw  my  sisters'  heads 

Bowed  each  beside  a  tree. 
I  could  not  see  the  castle  leads, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

Alicia  wore  a  scarlet  gown, 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

But  Ursula's  was  russet  brown  : 
For  the  mist  we  could  not  see 

The  scarlet  roofs  of  the  good  town. 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

Green  holly  in  Alicia's  hand. 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea  ; 

With  sere  oak-leaves  did  Ursula  stand  ; 
O  !   yet  alas  for  me  ! 
171 


I  did  but  bear  a  peel'd  white  wand, 
When  the  Sivord  went  out  to  sea, 

O,  russet  brown  and  scarlet  bright, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea^ 

My  sisters  wore  ;  I  wore  but  white  : 
Red,  brown,  and  white,  are  three ; 

Three  damozels  ;  each  had  a  knight, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

Sir  Robert  shouted  loud,  and  said. 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

"  Alicia,  while  I  see  thy  head. 
What  shall  I  bring  for  thee  ? '' 

"  O,  my  sweet  lord,  a  ruby  red  :  " 
The  Sword  ivent  out  to  sea. 

Sir  Miles  said,  while  the  sails  hung  down. 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea^ 

"  O,  Ursula !  while  I  see  the  town, 
What  shall  I  bring  for  thee  ? " 

"  Dear  knight,  bring  back  a  falcon  brown :  " 
The  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

But  my  Roland,  no  word  he  said 
When  the  Sivord  went  out  to  sea; 

172 


_J 


But  only  turn'd  away  his  head, — 

A  quick  shriek  came  from  me  : 
"  Come  back,  dear  lord,  to  your  white  maid  ; ' 

The  Sword  ivent  out  to  sea. 

The  hot  sun  bit  the  garden-beds, 

When  the  Sword  came  hack  from  sea  ; 

Beneath  an  apple-tree  our  heads 
Stretched  out  toward  the  sea ; 

Grey  gleam'd  the  thirsty  castle  leads, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea. 

Lord  Robert  brought  a  ruby  red. 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea; 

He  kissed  Alicia  on  the  head  : 
"  I  am  come  back  to  thee ; 

'Tis  time,  sweet  love,  that  we  were  wed. 
Now  the  Sword  is  back  from  sea  /  " 

Sir  Miles  he  bore  a  falcon  brown. 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea  ; 

His  arms  went  round  tall  Ursula's  gown, — 
"  What  joy,  O  love,  but  thee  ? 

Let  us  be  wed  in  the  good  town, 
Now  the  Sword  is  back  from  sea  /  " 
173 


My  heart  grew  sick,  no  more  afraid, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea; 

Upon  the  deck  a  tall  white  maid 
Sat  on  Lord  Roland's  knee  ; 

His  chin  was  press' d  upon  her  head, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea  ! 


174 


SPELL-BOUND 

HOW  weary  is  it  none  can  tell, 
How  dismally  the  days  go  by  ! 
I  hear  the  tinkling  of  the  bell, 
I  see  the  cross  against  the  sky. 

The  year  wears  round  to  autumn-tide. 

Yet  comes  no  reaper  to  the  corn  ; 
The  golden  land  is  like  a  bride 

When  first  she  knows  herself  forlorn- 
She  sits  and  weeps  with  all  her  hair 

Laid  downwards  over  tender  hands ; 
For  stained  silk  she  hath  no  care. 

No  care  for  broken  ivory  wands  ; 

The  silver  cups  beside  her  stand  ; 
The  golden  stars  on  the  blue  roof 
175 


Yet  glitter,  though  against  her  hand 
His  cold  sword  presses  for  a  proof 

He  is  not  dead,  but  gone  away. 

How  many  hours  did  she  wait 
For  me,  I  wonder  ?     Till  the  day 

Had  faded  wholly,  and  the  gate 

Clanged  to  behind  returning  knights  ? 

I  wonder  did  she  raise  her  head 
And  go  away,  fleeing  the  lights ; 

And  lay  the  samite  on  her  bed, 

The  wedding  samite  strewn  with  pearls : 
Then  sit  with  hands  laid  on  her  knees. 

Shuddering  at  half-heard  sound  of  girls 
That  chatter  outside  in  the  breeze  ? 

I  wonder  did  her  poor  heart  throb 
At  distant  tramp  of  coming  knight  ? 

How  often  did  the  choking  sob 

Raise  up  her  head  and  lips  ?     The  light. 

Did  it  come  on  her  unawares. 

And  drag  her  sternly  down  before 

People  who  loved  her  not  ?  in  prayers 
Did  she  say  one  name  and  no  more  ? 
176 


And  once — all  songs  they  ever  sung, 

All  tales  they  ever  told  to  me, 
This  only  burden  through  them  rung  : 

0  /  golden  love  that  waitest  me^ 

The  days  pass  on,  pass  on  apace. 

Sometimes  I  have  a  little  rest 
In  fairest  dreams,  ivhen  on  thy  face 

My  lips  lie,  or  thy  hands  are  prest 

About  my  forehead,  and  thy  lips 

Draw  near  and  nearer  to  mine  own  ; 

But  when  the  vision  from  me  slips. 
In  colourless  dawn  I  lie  and  moan. 

And  wander  forth  with  fever  d  blood. 
That  makes  me  start  at  little  things. 

The  blackbird  screaming  from  the  ivood. 
The  sudden  whirr  of  pheasants'^  wings, 

0  !  dearest,  scarcely  seen  by  me — 

But  when  that  wild  time  had  gone  by. 

And  in  these  arms  I  folded  thee. 

Who  ever  thought  those  days  could  die  ? 

Yet  now  I  wait,  and  you  wait  too. 

For  what  perchance  may  never  come ; 

177  ] 


You  think  I  have  forgotten  you, 
That  I  grew  tired  and  went  home. 

But  what  if  some  day  as  I  stood 

Against  the  wall  with  strained  hands, 

And  turn'd  my  face  toward  the  wood. 
Away  from  all  the  golden  lands ; 

And  saw  you  come  with  tired  feet 

And  pale  face  thin  and  wan  with  care, 

And  stained  raiment  no  more  neat, 

The  white  dust  lying  on  your  hair  : — 

Then  I  should  say,  I  could  not  come  ; 

This  land  was  my  wide  prison,  dear  ; 
I  could  not  choose  but  go ;    at  home 

There  is  a  wizard  whom  I  fear : 

He  bound  me  round  with  silken  chains 
I  could  not  break  ;  he  set  me  here 

Above  the  golden-waving  plains. 
Where  never  reaper  cometh  near. 

And  you  have  brought  me  my  good  sword. 
Wherewith  in  happy  days  of  old 

I  won  you  well  from  knight  and  lord ; 
My  heart  upswells  and  I  grow  bold. 
178 


But  I  shall  die  unless  you  stand, 

— Half  lying  now,  you  are  so  weak,- 

Within  my  arms,  unless  your  hand 
Pass  to  and  fro  across  my  cheek. 


179 


THE   WIND 

AH  !  no,  no,  it  is  nothing,  surely  nothing  at  all. 
Only  the  wild-going  wind  round  by  the  garden- 
wall, 
For  the  dawn  just  now  is  breaking,  the  wind  begin- 
ning to  fall. 

Wind,  wind  /  thou  art  sad,  art  thou  kind  P 
Wind,  nvlnd,  unhappy  !  thou  art  blind, 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  Uly-seed  tojind* 

So  I  will  sit,  and  think  and  think  of  the  days  gone  by, 
Never  moving  my  chair  for  fear  the  dogs  should  cry, 
Making  no  noise  at  all  while  the  flambeau  burns  awry. 

For  my  chair  is  heavy  and  carved,  and  with  sweeping 

green  behind 
It  is  hung,  and  the  dragons  thereon  grin  out  in  the 

gusts  of  the  wind ; 

On  its  folds  an  orange  lies,  with  a  deep  gash  cut  in 

the  rind. 

i8o 


wind,  wind  !  thou  art  sad,  art  thou  kind  P 

Windy  wind,  unhappy  !  thou  art  blind, 

Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  Uly-seed  tojind. 

If  I  move  my  chair  it  will  scream,  and  the  orange  will 

roll  out  far, 
And  the  faint  yellow  juice  ooze  out  like  blood  from  a 

wizard's  jar ; 
And  the  dogs   will  howl  for  those   who   went   last 

month  to  the  war. 

Wind,  wind  !  thou  art  sad,  art  thou  kind  P 
Wind,  wind,  unhappy  /  thou  art  blind, 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  llly^seed  tojind. 

So  I  will  sit  and  think  of  love  that  is  over  and  past, 
O  !    so  long  ago — yes,  I  will  be  quiet  at  last ; 
Whether  I  like  it  or  not,  a  grim  half-slumber  is  cast 

Over  my  worn  old  brains,  that  touches  the  roots  of  my 

heart. 
And  above  my  half-shut  eyes  the  blue  roof  *gins  to 

part. 
And  show  the  blue  spring  sky,  till   I  am  ready  to 

start 

i8i 


From  out  of  the  green-hung  chair;   but  something 

keeps  me  still, 
And  I  fall  in  a  dream  that  I  walk'd  with  her  on  the 

side  of  a  hill, 
Dotted — for    was  it  not  spring  ? — with  tufts  of  the 

daffodil. 

Wind^  fwind !  thou  art  sad,  art  thou  kind  P 
Wind,  ivindy  unhappy  !  thou  art  Mind, 
Tet  still  thou  ivanderest  the  lily-seed  tojind. 

And  Margaret  as  she  walk'd  held  a  painted  book  in 

her  hand  ; 
Her  linger  kept  the  place  ;  I  caught  her,  we  both  did 

stand 
Face  to  face,  on  the  top  of  the  highest  hill  in  the 

land. 

Wind,  loind  !  thou  art  sad,  art  thou  hind  P 
Wind,  ivind,  unhappy  !  thou  art  blind, 
Tet  still  thou  ivanderest  the  lily-seed  tojind, 

I  held  to  her  long  bare  arms,  but  she  shuddered  away 

from  me. 
While  the  flush  went  out  of  her  face  as  her  head  fell 

back  on  a  tree. 
And  a  spasm  caught  her  mouth,  fearful  for  me  to  see ; 
182 


And  still  I  held  to  her  arms  till  her  shoulder  touched 

my  mail, 
Weeping  she  totter'd  forward,  so  glad  that  I  should 

prevail, 
And  her  hair  went  over  my  robe,  like  a  gold  flag  over 

a  sail. 

Windy  wind  /  thou  art  sady  art  thou  kind  P 
Wind,  windy  unhappy  !  thou  art  blindy 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  lily -seed  tojind. 

I  kiss'd  her  hard  by  the  ear,  and  she  kiss'd  me  on  the 

brow. 
And  then  lay  down  on  the  grass,  where  the  mark  on 

the  moss  is  now. 
And  spread  her  arms  out  wide  while  I   went  down 

below. 

Windy  wind  !  thou  art  sady  art  thou  kind  P 
Windy  windy  unhappy  /  thou  art  blindy 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  lily-seed  to  find. 

And  then  I  walk'd  for  a  space  to  and  fro  on  the  side 

of  the  hill. 
Till  I  gathered  and  held  in  my  arms  great  sheaves  of 

the  daffodil. 
And  when  I  came  again  my  Margaret  lay  there  still. 
183 


I  piled  them  high  and  high  above  her  heaving  breast, 
How  they  were  caught  and  held  in  her  loose  ungirded 

vest! 
But  one  beneath  her  arm  died,  happy  so  to  be  prest ! 

Wind,  ivtnd  /  thou  art  sad,  art  thou  kind  P 
Wind,  ivind,  unhappy  I  thou  art  blind, 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  lily-seed  tojind. 

Again  I  turn'd  my  back  and  went  away  for  an  hour ; 
She  said  no  word  when  I  came  again,  so,  flower  by 

flower, 
I  counted  the  daffodils  over,  and  cast  them  languidly 

lower. 

Wind,  wind  !  thou  art  sad,  art  thou  hind  P 
Wind,  wind,  unhappy  /  thou  art  blind, 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  lily-seed  tojind. 

My  dry  hands   shook  and  shook  as  the  green  gown 

show'd  again, 
Clear'd  from  the  yellow  flowers,  and  I  grew  hollow 

with  pain. 
And  on  to  us  both  there  fell  from  the  sun-shower 

drops  of  rain. 

184 


Wind^  wind  /  thou  art  sad^  art  thou  hind  ? 
Windy  windy  unhappy  !  thou  art  hlind^ 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  lily-seed  tojind. 

Alas  !   alas  !  there  was  blood  on  the  very  quiet  breast, 
Blood  lay  in  the  many  folds  of  the  loose  ungirded  vest, 
Blood  lay  upon  her  arm  where  the  flower  had  been 
prest. 

I  shriekM  and  leapt  from  my   chair,  and  the  orange 

roll'd  out  far. 
The  faint  yellow  juice  oozed  out  like  blood  from  a 

wizard's  jar  ; 
And  then  in  march'd  the  ghosts  of  those  that  had  gone 

to  the  war. 

I  knew  them  by  the  arms  that  I  was  used  to  paint 
Upon  their  long  thin  shields  ;  but  the  colours  were  all 

grown  faint, 
And  faint  upon  their  banner  was  Olaf,  king  and  saint. 

Windy  wind  I  thou  art  sady  art  thou  kind  P 
Windy  windy  unhappy  /  thou  art  blindy 
Tet  still  thou  wanderest  the  lily-seed  to  find. 


i8S 


THE    BLUE   CLOSET 

The  Damozels. 

LADY  Alice,  lady  Louise, 
Between  the  wash  of  the  tumbling  seas 
We  are  ready  to  sing,  if  so  ye  please  ; 
So  lay  your  long  hands  on  the  keys ; 

Sing,  ^^  Laudate  puerJJ^ 

And  ever  the  great  hell  overhead 
Bootnd  in  the  iv'ind  a  hndl for  the  dead, 
Though  no  one  tolFd  It,  a  knell  for  the  dead. 

Lady  Louise. 

Sister,  let  the  measure  swell 
Not  too  loud  ;  for  you  sing  not  well 
If  you  drown  the  faint  boom  of  the  bell ; 
He  is  weary,  so  am  I. 
i86 


jind  ever  the  chevron  overhead 
Flapped  on  the  banner  of  the  dead  ; 
(^Was  he  asleep^  or  was  he  dead P) 

Lady  Alice. 

Alice  the  Queen,  and  Louise  the  Queen, 
Two  damozels  wearing  purple  and  green, 
Four  lone  ladies  dwelling  here 
From  day  to  day  and  year  to  year  ; 
And  there  is  none  to  let  us  go  ; 
To  break  the  locks  of  the  doors  below. 
Or  shovel  away  the  heaped-up  snow  ; 
And  when  we  die  no  man  will  know 
That  we  are  dead  ;  but  they  give  us  leave, 
Once  every  year  on  Christmas-eve, 
To  sing  in  the  Closet  Blue  one  song  ; 
And  we  should  be  so  long,  so  long. 
If  we  dared,  in  singing  ;  for  dream  on  dream, 
They  float  on  in  a  happy  stream  ; 
Float  from  the  gold  strings,  float  from  the  keys, 
Float  from  the  openM  lips  of  Louise  ; 
But,  alas  !  the  sea-salt  oozes  through 
The  chinks  of  the  tiles  of  the  Closet  Blue  ; 
^nd  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 

1S7 


Booms  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  deady 
The  wind  plays  on  it  a  knell  for  the  dead, 

(  They  sing  all  together, ) 

How  long  ago  was  it,  how  long  ago, 

He  came  to  this  tower  with  hands  full  of  snow  ? 

"  Kneel  down,  O  love  Louise,  kneel  down,"  he  said, 
And  sprinkled  the  dusty  snow  over  my  head. 

He  watch'd  the  snow  melting,  it  ran  through  my  hair, 
Ran  over  my  shoulders,  white  shoulders  and  bare. 

"  I  cannot  weep  for  thee,  poor  love  Louise, 
For  my  tears  are  all  hidden  deep  under  the  seas ; 

"  In  a  gold  and  blue  casket  she  keeps  all  my  tears. 
But  my  eyes  are  no  longer  blue,  as  in  old  years ; 

"  Yea,  they  grow  grey  with  time,  grow  small  and  dry, 
I  am  so  feeble  now,  would  I  might  die." 

^nd  in  truth  the  great  bell  overhead 
Left  off  his  pealing  for  the  deady 
Perchance^  because  the  wind  was  dead. 

Will  he  come  back  again,  or  is  he  dead  ? 
O  !   is  he  sleeping,  my  scarf  round  his  head  \ 
i88 


Or  did  they  strangle  him  as  he  lay  there, 
With  the  long  scarlet  scarf  I  used  to  wear  ? 

Only  I  pray  thee,  Lord,  let  him  come  here ! 
Both  his  soul  and  his  body  to  me  are  most  dear. 

Dear  Lord,  that  loves  me,  I  wait  to  receive 
Either  body  or  spirit  this  wild  Christmas-eve. 

Through  thejioor  shot  up  a  lily  red^ 

With  a  patch  of  earth  from  the  land  of  the  dead. 

For  he  was  strong  in  the  land  of  the  dead. 

What  matter  that  his  cheeks  were  pale, 
His  kind  kiss'd  lips  all  grey  ? 

"  O,  love  Louise,  have  you  waited  long  ? '' 
"  O,  my  lord  Arthur,  yea." 

What  if  his  hair  that  brush'd  her  cheek 

Was  stiff  with  frozen  rime  ? 
His  eyes  were  grown  quite  blue  again. 

As  in  the  happy  time. 

"  O,  love  Louise,  this  is  the  key 
Of  the  happy  golden  land  !  " 

O,  sisters,  cross  the  bridge  with  me. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  sand. 
189 


What  matter  that  I  cannot  see, 
If  ye  take  me  by  the  hand  ? 

jind  ever  the  great  bell  overhead j 

And  the  tumbling  seas  mourn  d  for  the  dead ; 

For  their  song  ceased^  and  they  nvere  dead. 


190 


THE  TUNE   OF   SEVEN  TOWERS 

NO  one  goes  there  now  ; 
For  what  is  left  to  fetch  away 
From  the  desolate  battlements  all  arow, 
And  the  lead  roof  heavy  and  grey  ? 
^^Thereforcy^  said  fair  Tolatid  of  the  jiowers ^ 
*'  This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  Towers  J' ^ 

No  one  walks  there  now  ; 

Except  in  the  white  moonlight 
The  white  ghosts  walk  in  a  row  ; 
If  one  could  see  it,  an  awful  sight, — 
"  Listen  !  "  said  fair  Toland  of  the  flowers  ^ 
"  This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  TowersJ'^ 

But  none  can  see  them  now, 

Though  they  sit  by  the  side  of  the  moat, 
Feet  half  in  the  water,  there  in  a  row, 

Long  hair  in  the  wind  afloat. 
191 


"  ThereforCy^  said  fair  Toland  of  the  JlowerSy 
"  This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  Towers  J^ 

If  any  will  go  to  it  now, 

He  must  go  to  it  all  alone, 
Its  gates  will  not  open  to  any  row 

Of  glittering  spears — will  you  go  alone  ? 
^"^  Listen  /"  said  fair  Toland  of  the  flowers  ^ 
"  This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  Towers  T 

By  my  love  go  there  now. 

To  fetch  me  my  coif  away, 
My  coif  and  my  kirtle,  with  pearls  arow, 
Oliver,  go  to-day ! 
**  Therefore  ^^  said  fair  Toland  of  the  flowers  ^ 
"  This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  Towers  J^ 

1  am  unhappy  now, 

I  cannot  tell  you  why  ; 
If  you  go,  the  priests  and  I  in  a  row 
Will  pray  that  you  may  not  die. 
"  Listen  !  "  said  fair  Toland  of  the  flowers  ^ 
**  This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  Towers  J  ^ 

If  you  will  go  for  me  now, 
I  will  kiss  your  mouth  at  last ; 
192 


l^S^e  sayeth  inwardly  r\ 
{The  graves  stand  grey  in  a  row,) 
Oliver,  hold  me  fast ! 
"  Therefore  y"  said  fair  Toland  of  the  flowers, 
"  This  is  the  tune  of  Seven  Tower s,^^ 


193 


GOLDEN   WINGS 

MIDWAYS  of  a  walled  garden. 
In  the  happy  poplar  land, 
Did  an  ancient  castle  stand. 
With  an  old  knight  for  a  warden. 

Many  scarlet  bricks  there  were 
In  its  walls,  and  old  grey  stone  ; 
Over  which  red  apples  shone 

At  the  right  time  of  the  year. 

On  the  bricks  the  green  moss  grew, 
Yellow  lichen  on  the  stone. 
Over  which  red  apples  shone  ; 

Little  war  that  castle  knew. 

Deep  green  water  fill'd  the  moat. 
Each  side  had  a  red-brick  lip. 
Green  and  mossy  with  the  drip 

Of  dew  and  rain  ;  there  was  a  boat 
194 


Of  carven  wood,  with  hangings  green 
About  the  stern ;  it  was  great  bliss 
For  lovers  to  sit  there  and  kiss 

In  the  hot  summer  noons,  not  seen. 

Across  the  moat  the  fresh  west  wind 

In  very  little  ripples  went ; 

The  way  the  heavy  aspens  bent 
Towards  it,  was  a  thing  to  mind. 

The  painted  drawbridge  over  it 

Went  up  and  down  with  gilded  chains, 
'Twas  pleasant  in  the  summer  rains 

Within  the  bridge-house  there  to  sit. 

There  were  five  swans  that  ne'er  did  eat 
The  water- weeds,  for  ladies  came 
Each  day,  and  young  knights  did  the  same. 

And  gave  them  cakes  and  bread  for  meat. 

They  had  a  house  of  painted  wood, 
A  red  roof  gold-spiked  over  it. 
Wherein  upon  their  eggs  to  sit 

Week  after  week  ;  no  drop  of  blood, 
195 


Drawn  from  men's  bodies  by  sword-blows, 
Came  ever  there,  or  any  tear ; 
Most  certainly  from  year  to  year 

'Twas  pleasant  as  a  Provence  rose. 

The  banners  seem'd  quite  full  of  ease. 
That  over  the  turret-roofs  hung  down  ; 
The  battlements  could  get  no  frown 

From  the  flower-moulded  cornices. 

Who  walked  in  that  garden  there  ? 

Miles  and  Giles  and  Isabeau, 

Tall  Jehane  du  Castel  beau, 
Alice  of  the  golden  hair. 

Big  Sir  Gervaise,  the  good  knight, 

Fair  Ellayne  le  Violet, 

Mary,  Constance  fille  de  fay. 
Many  dames  with  footfall  light. 

Whosoever  wander' d  there. 
Whether  it  be  dame  or  knight. 
Half  of  scarlet,  half  of  white 

Their  raiment  was ;  of  roses  fair 
196 


Each  wore  a  garland  on  the  head, 
At  Ladies'  Gard  the  way  was  so : 
Fair  Jehane  du  Castel  beau 

Wore  her  wreath  till  it  was  dead. 

Little  joy  she  had  of  it, 

Of  the  raiment  white  and  red. 
Or  the  garland  on  her  head, 

She  had  none  with  whom  to  sit 

In  the  carven  boat  at  noon ; 

None  the  more  did  Jehane  weep, 
She  would  only  stand  and  keep 

Saying,  "He  will  be  here  soon." 

Many  times  in  the  long  day 

Miles  and  Giles  and  Gervaise  past. 
Holding  each  some  white  hand  fast. 

Every  time  they  heard  her  say  : 

"  Summer  cometh  to  an  end, 
Undern  cometh  after  noon ; 
Golden  wings  will  be  here  soon, 

What  if  I  some  token  send  ?  " 
197 


Wherefore  that  night  within  the  hall, 
With  open  mouth  and  open  eyes, 
Like  some  one  listening  with  surprise, 

She  sat  before  the  sight  of  all. 

Stoop'd  down  a  little  she  sat  there. 

With  neck  stretch'd  out  and  chin  thrown  up. 

One  hand  around  a  golden  cup  ; 
And  strangely  with  her  fingers  fair 

She  beat  some  tune  upon  the  gold ; 
The  minstrels  in  the  gallery 
Sung  :  "  Arthur,  who  will  never  die, 

In  Avallon  he  groweth  old." 

And  when  the  song  was  ended,  she 

Rose  and  caught  up  her  gown  and  ran  ; 
None  stopp'd  her  eager  face  and  wan 

Of  all  that  pleasant  company. 

Right  so  within  her  own  chamber 
Upon  her  bed  she  sat ;  and  drew 
Her  breath  in  quick  gasps  ;  till  she  knew 

That  no  man  follow'd  after  her : 
198 


She  took  the  garland  from  her  head, 
Loosed  all  her  hair,  and  let  it  lie 
Upon  the  coverlit ;  thereby 

She  laid  the  gown  of  white  and  red  ; 

And  she  took  off  her  scarlet  shoon. 

And  bared  her  feet ;  still  more  and  more 
Her  sweet  face  redden'd  ;   evermore 

She  murmur'd  :  "  He  will  be  here  soon ; 

"  Truly  he  cannot  fail  to  know 
My  tender  body  waits  him  here  ; 
And  if  he  knows,  I  have  no  fear 

For  poor  Jehane  du  Castel  beau." 

She  took  a  sword  within  her  hand. 
Whose  hilts  were  silver,  and  she  sung. 
Somehow  like  this,  wild  words  that  rung 

A  long  way  over  the  moonlit  land  : — 

Gold  wings  across  the  sea  ! 
Grey  light  from  tree  to  tree, 
Gold  hair  beside  my  knee, 
I  pray  thee  come  to  me. 
Gold  wings  ! 

199 


The  water  slips, 
The  red-biird  moor-hen  dips 
Sweet  kisses  on  red  lips ; 
Alas  !  the  red  rust  grips, 
And  the  blood-red  dagger  rips. 
Yet,  O  knight,  come  to  me  ! 

Are  not  my  blue  eyes  sweet  ? 
The  west  wind  from  the  wheat 
Blows  cold  across  my  feet ; 
Is  it  not  time  to  meet 
Gold  wings  across  the  sea  ? 

White  swans  on  the  green  moat, 
Small  feathers  left  afloat 
By  the  blue-painted  boat ; 
Swift  running  of  the  stoat ; 
Sweet  gurgling  note  by  note 
Of  sweet  music. 

O  gold  wings. 
Listen  how  gold  hair  sings. 
And  the  Ladies'  Castle  rings. 
Gold  wings  across  the  sea. 

I  sit  on  a  purple  bed, 
Outside,  the  wall  is  red, 

200 


Thereby  the  apple  hangs, 

And  the  wasp,  caught  by  the  fangs. 

Dies  in  the  autumn  night. 
And  the  bat  flits  till  light, 
And  the  love-crazed  knight 

Kisses  the  long  wet  grass  : 
The  wTary  days  pass, — 
Gold  wings  across  the  sea  ! 

Gold  wings  across  the  sea  ! 
Moonlight  from  tree  to  tree, 
Sweet  hair  laid  on  my  knee, 
O,  sweet  knight,  come  to  me ! 

Gold  wings,  the  short  night  slips, 
The  white  swan's  long  neck  drips, 
I  pray  thee,  kiss  my  lips. 
Gold  wings  across  the  sea. 

No  answer  through  the  moonlit  night ; 

No  answer  in  the  cold  grey  dawn ; 

No  answer  when  the  shaven  lawn 
Grows  green,  and  all  the  roses  bright. 


Her  tired  feet  look'd  cold  and  thin, 

Her  lips  were  twitched,  and  wretched  tears, 
Some,  as  she  lay,  roll'd  past  her  ears, 

Some  fell  from  off  her  quivering  chin. 

Her  long  throat,  stretch'd  to  its  full  length. 
Rose  up  and  fell  right  brokenly ; 
As  though  the  unhappy  heart  was  nigh 

Striving  to  break  with  all  its  strength. 

And  when  she  slipp'd  from  off  the  bed. 

Her  cramped  feet  would  not  hold  her ;  she 
Sank  down  and  crept  on  hand  and  knee. 

On  the  window-sill  she  laid  her  head. 

There,  with  crooked  arm  upon  the  sill. 
She  look'd  out,  muttering  dismally  : 
"  There  is  no  sail  upon  the  sea. 

No  pennon  on  the  empty  hill. 

"  I  cannot  stay  here  all  alone. 

Or  meet  their  happy  faces  here. 

And  wretchedly  I  have  no  fear  ; 
A  little  while,  and  I  am  gone." 


Therewith  she  rose  upon  her  feet, 
And  totter'd ;  cold  and  misery 
Still  made  the  deep  sobs  come,  till  she 

At  last  stretch'd  out  her  fingers  sweet, 

And  caught  the  great  sword  in  her  hand  ; 

And,  stealing  down  the  silent  stair, 

Barefooted  in  the  morning  air. 
And  only  in  her  smock  did  stand 

Upright  upon  the  green  lawn  grass ; 

And  hope  grew  in  her  as  she  said ; 

"  I  have  thrown  off  the  white  and  red, 
And  pray  God  it  may  come  to  pass 

"  I  meet  him  ;  if  ten  years  go  by 
Before  I  meet  him  ;  if,  indeed, 
Meanwhile  both  soul  and  body  bleed, 

Yet  there  is  end  of  misery, 

"  And  I  have  hope.     He  could  not  come. 
But  I  can  go  to  him  and  show 
These  new  things  I  have  got  to  know, 

And  make  him  speak,  who  has  been  dumb." 
203 


O  Jehane  !  the  red  morning  sun 

Changed  her  white  feet  to  glowing  gold, 
Upon  her  smock,  on  crease  and  fold. 

Changed  that  to  gold  which  had  been  dun. 

Oh  Miles,  and  Giles,  and  Isabeau, 
Fair  Ellayne  le  Violet, 
Mary,  Constance  fille  de  fay  ! 

Where  is  Jehane  du  Castel  beau  ? 

O  big  Gervaise  ride  apace  ! 

Down  to  the  hard  yellow  sand, 
Where  the  water  meets  the  land. 

This  is  Jehane  by  her  face ; 

Why  has  she  a  broken  sword  ? 

Mary  !   she  is  slain  outright ; 

Verily  a  piteous  sight ; 
Take  her  up  without  a  word ! 

Giles  and  Miles  and  Gervaise  there, 
Ladies'  Gard  must  meet  the  war  ; 
Whatsoever  knights  these  are, 

Man  the  walls  withouten  fear  ! 

204 


Axes  to  the  apple-trees, 

Axes  to  the  aspens  tali  ! 

Barriers  without  the  wall 
May  be  lightly  made  of  these. 

O  poor  shivering  Isabeau ; 
Poor  Ellayne  le  Violet, 
Bent  with  fear  !   we  miss  to-day 

Brave  Jehane  du  Castel  beau. 

O  poor  Mary,  weeping  so  ! 

Wretched  Constance  fille  de  fay ! 

Verily  we  miss  to-day 
Fair  Jehane  du  Castel  beau. 

The  apples  now  grow  green  and  sour 
Upon  the  mouldering  castle-wall. 
Before  they  ripen  there  they  fall : 

There  are  no  banners  on  the  tower. 

The  draggled  swans  most  eagerly  eat 
The  green  weeds  trailing  in  the  moat ! 
Inside  the  rotting  leaky  boat 

You  see  a  slain  man's  stifFen'd  feet, 
205 


THE  HAYSTACK  IN  THE  FLOODS 

HAD  she  come  all  the  way  for  this, 
To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss  ? 
Yea,  had  she  borne  the  dirt  and  rain 
That  her  own  eyes  might  see  him  slain 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods  ? 

Along  the  dripping  leafless  woods. 
The  stirrup  touching  either  shoe, 
She  rode  astride  as  troopers  do ; 
With  kirtle  kilted  to  her  knee. 
To  which  the  mud  splash'd  wretchedly ; 
And  the  wet  dripp'd  from  every  tree 
Upon  her  head  and  heavy  hair. 
And  on  her  eyelids  broad  and  fair  ; 
The  tears  and  rain  ran  down  her  face. 

By  fits  and  starts  they  rode  apace. 
And  very  often  was  his  place 

206 


Far  off  from  her  ;  he  had  to  ride 

Ahead,  to  see  what  might  betide 

When  the  roads  cross'd  ;  and  sometimes,  when 

There  rose  a  murmuring  from  his  men. 

Had  to  turn  back  with  promises  ; 

Ah  me  !   she  had  but  little  ease  ; 

And  often  for  pure  doubt  and  dread 

She  sobb'd,  made  giddy  in  the  head 

By  the  swift  riding  ;   while,  for  cold. 

Her  slender  fingers  scarce  could  hold 

The  wet  reins ;  yea,  and  scarcely,  too. 

She  felt  the  foot  within  her  shoe 

Against  the  stirrup :  all  for  this, 

To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss 

Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods. 

For  when  they  near'd  that  old  soak'd  hay, 

They  saw  across  the  only  way 

That  Judas,  Godmar,  and  the  three 

Red  running  lions  dismally 

Grinn'd  from  his  pennon,  under  which. 

In  one  straight  line  along  the  ditch. 

They  counted  thirty  heads. 

So  then, 
While  Robert  turn'd  round  to  his  men, 

207 


She  saw  at  once  the  wretched  end, 
And,  stooping  down,  tried  hard  to  rend 
Her  coif  the  wrong  way  from  her  head. 
And  hid  her  eyes  ;  while  Robert  said  : 
"  Nay,  love,  'tis  scarcely  two  to  one. 
At  Poictiers,  where  we  made  them  run 
So  fast — why,  sweet  my  love,  good  cheer. 
The  Gascon  frontier  is  so  near. 
Nought  after  this/' 

But,  <«  O,"  she  said, 
"  My  God  !   my  God  !   I  have  to  tread 
The  long  way  back  without  you ;  then 
The  court  at  Paris  ;  those  six  men  ; 
The  gratings  of  the  Chatelet ; 
The  swift  Seine  on  some  rainy  day 
Like  this,  and  people  standing  by. 
And  laughing,  while  my  weak  hands  try 
To  recollect  how  strong  men  swim. 
All  this,  or  else  a  life  with  him. 
For  which  I  should  be  damned  at  last. 
Would  God  that  this  next  hour  were  past !  " 

He  answer'd  not,  but  cried  his  cry, 
"  St.  George  for  Marny  !  "  cheerily  ; 
208 


And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  rein. 
Alas  !  no  man  of  all  his  train 
Gave  back  that  cheery  cry  again  ; 
And,  while  for  rage  his  thumb  beat  fast 
Upon  his  sword-hilts,  some  one  cast 
About  his  neck  a  kerchief  long, 
And  bound  him. 

Then  they  went  along 
To  Godmar  ;  who  said :  "  Now,  Jehane, 
Your  lover's  life  is  on  the  wane 
So  fast,  that,  if  this  very  hour 
You  yield  not  as  my  paramour, 
He  will  not  see  the  rain  leave  off — 
Nay,  keep  your  tongue  from  gibe  and  scoff. 
Sir  Robert,  or  I  slay  you  now." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  brow. 

Then  gazed  upon  the  palm,  as  though 

She  thought  her  forehead  bled,  and — **  No," 

She  said,  and  turn'd  her  head  away. 

As  there  were  nothing  else  to  say, 

And  everything  were  settled  :  red 

Grew  Godmar's  face  from  chin  to  head : 

"Jehane,  on  yonder  hill  there  stands 

My  castle,  guarding  well  my  lands  : 

209  p 


What  hinders  me  from  taking  you, 
And  doing  that  I  list  to  do 
To  your  fair  wilful  body,  while 
Your  knight  lies  dead  ?  " 

A  wicked  smile 
Wrinkled  her  face,  her  lips  grew  thin, 
A  long  way  out  she  thrust  her  chin  : 
<*  You  know  that  I  should  strangle  you 
While  you  were  sleeping  ;  or  bite  through 
Your  throat,  by  God's  help — ah  !  "  she  said, 
"  Lord  Jesus,  pity  your  poor  maid  ! 
For  in  such  wise  they  hem  me  in, 
I  cannot  choose  but  sin  and  sin, 
Whatever  happens  :  yet  I  think 
They  could  not  make  me  eat  and  drink. 
And  so  should  I  just  reach  my  rest." 

"  Nay,  if  you  do  not  my  behest, 

O  Jehane  !  though  I  love  you  well," 

Said  Godmar,  "  would  I  fail  to  tell 

All  that  I  know."     "  Foul  lies,"  she  said. 

"  Eh  ?  lies,  my  Jehane  ?  by  God's  head, 

At  Paris  folks  would  deem  them  true ! 

Do  you  know,  Jehane,  they  cry  for  you, 


*  Jehane  the  brown  !  Jehane  the  brown  ! 

Give  us  Jehane  to  burn  or  drown ! ' — 

Eh — gag  me  Robert — Sweet  my  friend, 

This  were  indeed  a  piteous  end 

For  those  long  fingers,  and  long  feet. 

And  long  neck,  and  smooth  shoulders  sweet ; 

An  end  that  few  men  would  forget 

That  saw  it — So,  an  hour  yet : 

Consider,  Jehane,  which  to  take 

Of  life  or  death!'' 


So,  scarce  awake, 
Dismounting,  did  she  leave  that  place. 
And  totter  some  yards ;  with  her  face 
Turn'd  upward  to  the  sky  she  lay. 
Her  head  on  a  wet  heap  of  hay. 
And  fell  asleep  :  and  while  she  slept. 
And  did  not  dream,  the  minutes  crept 
Round  to  the  twelve  again  ;  but  she, 
Being  waked  at  last,  sigh'd  quietly. 
And  strangely  child-like  came,  and  said  : 
<*  I  will  not."     Straightway  Godmar's  head. 
As  though  it  hung  on  strong  wires,  turn'd 
Most  sharply  round,  and  his  face  burn'd. 


For  Robert — both  his  eyes  were  dry, 
He  could  not  weep,  but  gloomily 
He  seem'd  to  watch  the  rain ;  yea,  too. 
His  lips  were  firm  ;  he  tried  once  more 
To  touch  her  lips ;  she  reach'd  out,  sore 
And  vain  desire  so  tortured  them. 
The  poor  grey  lips,  and  now  the  hem 
Of  his  sleeve  brush'd  them. 

With  a  start 
Up  Godmar  rose,  thrust  them  apart ; 
From  Robert's  throat  he  loosed  the  bands 
Of  silk  and  mail;  with  empty  hands 
Held  out,  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  saw 
The  long  bright  blade  without  a  flaw 
Glide  out,  from  Godmar's  sheath,  his  hand 
In  Robert's  hair  ;  she  saw  him  bend 
Back  Robert's  head  ;  she  saw  him  send 
The  thin  steel  down  ;  the  blow  told  well, 
Right  backward  the  knight  Robert  fell. 
And  moan'd  as  dogs  do,  being  half  dead, 
Unwitting,  as  I  deem  :  so  then 
Godmar  turn'd  grinning  to  his  men. 
Who  ran,  some  five  or  six,  and  beat 
His  head  to  pieces  at  their  feet. 


Then  Godmar  turn'd  again  and  said  : 
"  So,  Jehane,  the  first  fitte  is  read  ! 
Take  note,  my  lady,  that  your  way 
Lies  backward  to  the  Chatelet !  " 
She  shook  her  head  and  gazed  awhile 
At  her  cold  hands  with  a  rueful  smile, 
As  though  this  thing  had  made  her  mad. 

This  was  the  parting  that  they  had 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods. 


213 


TWO  RED  ROSES  ACROSS  THE  MOON 

THERE  was  a  lady  lived  in  a  hall, 
Large  in  the  eyes,  and  slim  and  tall ; 
And  ever  she  sang  from  noon  to  noon, 
Tivo  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

There  was  a  knight  came  riding  by 
In  early  spring,  when  the  roads  were  dry  ; 
And  he  heard  that  lady  sing  at  the  noon, 
Tnvo  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

Yet  none  the  more  he  stopp'd  at  all. 
But  he  rode  a-gallop  past  the  hall ; 
And  left  that  lady  singing  at  noon, 
Tivo  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

Because,  forsooth,  the  battle  was  set. 
And  the  scarlet  and  blue  had  got  to  be  met. 
He  rode  on  the  spur  till  the  next  warm  noon  ; — 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 
214 


But  the  battle  was  scattered  from  hill  to  hill, 
From  the  windmill  to  the  watermill ; 
And  he  said  to  himself,  as  it  near'd  the  noon. 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

You  scarce  could  see  for  the  scarlet  and  blue, 
A  golden  helm  or  a  golden  shoe  ; 
So  he  cried,  as  the  fight  grew  thick  at  the  noon. 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

Verily  then  the  gold  bore  through 
The  huddled  spears  of  the  scarlet  and  blue ; 
And  they  cried,  as  they  cut  them  down  at  the  noon, 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon, 

I  trow  he  stopp'd  when  he  rode  again 
By  the  hall,  though  draggled  sore  with  the  rain ; 
And  his  lips  were  pinch'd  to  kiss  at  the  noon 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 

Under  the  may  she  stoop'd  to  the  crown. 
All  was  gold,  there  was  nothing  of  brown ; 
And  the  horns  blew  up  the  hall  at  noon 
Two  red  roses  across  the  moon. 


215 


WELLAND  RIVER 

FAIR  Ellayne  she  walk'd  by  Welland  river, 
Across  the  lily  lee  : 
O,  gentle  Sir  Robert,  ye  are  not  kind 
To  stay  so  long  at  sea. 

Over  the  marshland  none  can  see 

Your  scarlet  pennon  fair ; 
O,  leave  the  Easterlings  alone. 

Because  of  my  golden  hair. 

The  day  when  over  Stamford  bridge 

That  dear  pennon  I  see 
Go  up  toward  the  goodly  street, 

'Twill  be  a  fair  day  for  me. 

O,  let  the  bonny  pennon  bide 

At  Stamford,  the  good  town. 
And  let  the  Easterlings  go  free. 

And  their  ships  go  up  and  down. 
zi6 


For  every  day  that  passes  by 

I  wax  both  pale  and  green, 
From  gold  to  gold  of  my  girdle 

There  is  an  inch  between. 

I  sew'd  it  up  with  scarlet  silk 

Last  night  upon  my  knee, 
And  my  heart  grew  sad  and  sore  to  think 

Thy  face  I'd  never  see. 

I  sew'd  it  up  with  scarlet  silk, 

As  I  lay  upon  my  bed  : 
Sorrow  !  the  man  I'll  never  see 

That  had  my  maidenhead. 

But  as  Ellayne  sat  on  her  window-seat 
And  comb'd  her  yellow  hair. 

She  saw  come  over  Stamford  bridge 
The  scarlet  pennon  fair. 

As  Ellayne  lay  and  sicken'd  sore, 

The  gold  shoes  on  her  feet, 
She  saw  Sir  Robert  and  his  men 

Ride  up  the  Stamford  street. 


He  had  a  coat  of  fine  red  gold, 

And  a  bascinet  of  steel ; 
Take  note  his  goodly  Collayne  sword 

Smote  the  spur  upon  his  heel. 

And  by  his  side,  on  a  grey  jennet. 

There  rode  a  fair  lady. 
For  every  ruby  Ellayne  wore, 

I  count  she  carried  three. 

Say,  was  not  Ellayne's  gold  hair  fine. 

That  fell  to  her  middle  free  ? 
But  that  lady's  hair  down  in  the  street. 

Fell  lower  than  her  knee. 

Fair  Ellayne's  face,  from  sorrow  and  grief, 

Was  waxen  pale  and  green  ; 
That  lady's  face  was  goodly  red. 

She  had  but  little  tene. 

But  as  he  pass'd  by  her  window 

He  grew  a  little  wroth : 
O,  why  does  yon  pale  face  look  at  me 

From  out  the  golden  cloth  ? 
218 


It  is  some  burd,  the  fair  dame  said 

That  aye  rode  him  beside, 
Has  come  to  see  your  bonny  face 

This  merry  summer-tide. 

But  Ellayne  let  a  lily-flower 

Light  on  his  cap  of  steel : 
O,  I  have  gotten  two  hounds,  fair  knight. 

The  one  has  served  me  well. 

But  the  other,  just  an  hour  agone, 
Has  come  from  over  the  sea. 

And  all  his  fell  is  sleek  and  fine, 
But  little  he  knows  of  me. 

Now  which  shall  I  let  go,  fair  knight, 
And  which  shall  bide  with  me  ? 

O,  lady,  have  no  doubt  to  keep 
The  one  that  best  loveth  thee. 

O,  Robert,  see  how  sick  I  am ! 

Ye  do  not  so  by  me. 
Lie  still,  fair  love  !  have  ye  gotten  harm 

While  I  was  on  the  sea  ? 
219 


Of  one  gift,  Robert,  that  ye  gave, 

I  sicken  to  the  death, 
I  pray  you  nurse-tend  me,  my  knight, 

Whiles  that  I  have  my  breath. 

Six  fathoms  from  the  Stamford  bridge 

He  left  that  dame  to  stand. 
And  whiles  she  wept,  and  whiles  she  cursed 

That  she  had  ever  taken  land, 

He  has  kiss'd  sweet  Ellayne  on  the  mouth. 

And  fair  she  fell  asleep, 
And  long  and  long  days  after  that 

Sir  Robert's  house  she  did  keep. 


RIDING  TOGETHER 

FOR  many,  many  days  together 
The  wind  blew  steady  from  the  East ; 
For  many  days  hot  grew  the  weather. 
About  the  time  of  our  Lady's  Feast. 

For  many  days  we  rode  together, 
Yet  met  we  neither  friend  nor  foe ; 

Hotter  and  clearer  grew  the  weather, 
Steadily  did  the  East  wind  blow. 

We  saw  the  trees  in  the  hot,  bright  weather 
Clear-cut,  with  shadows  very  black. 

As  freely  we  rode  on  together 

With  helms  unlaced  and  bridles  slack. 

And  often  as  we  rode  together. 

We,  looking  down  the  green-bank'd  stream. 
Saw  flowers  in  the  sunny  weather. 

And  saw  the  bubble-making  bream. 


And  in  the  night  lay  down  together, 
And  hung  above  our  heads  the  rood, 

Or  watch'd  night-long  in  the  dewy  weather, 
The  while  the  moon  did  watch  the  wood. 

Our  spears  stood  bright  and  thick  together. 
Straight  out  the  banners  stream' d  behind, 

As  we  gallop'd  on  in  the  sunny  weather. 
With  faces  turn'd  towards  the  wind. 

Down  sank  our  threescore  spears  together. 

As  thick  we  saw  the  pagans  ride ; 
His  eager  face  in  the  clear  fresh  weather. 

Shone  out  that  last  time  by  my  side. 

Up  the  sweep  of  the  bridge  we  dash'd  together. 
It  rock'd  to  the  crash  of  the  meeting  spears, 

Down  rain'd  the  buds  of  the  dear  spring  weather, 
The  elm-tree  flowers  fell  like  tears. 

There,  as  we  roU'd  and  writhed  together, 

I  threw  my  arms  above  my  head. 
For  close  by  my  side,  in  the  lovely  weather, 

I  saw  him  reel  and  fall  back  dead. 

I  and  the  slayer  met  together, 

He  waited  the  death -stroke  there  in  his  place, 


With  thoughts  of  death,  in  the  lovely  weather, 
Gapingly  mazed  at  my  madden'd  face. 

Madly  I  fought  as  we  fought  together  ; 

In  vain :  the  little  Christian  band 
The  pagans  drown'd,  as  in  stormy  weather. 

The  river  drowns  low-lying  land. 

They  bound  my  blood-stain'd  hands  together, 
They  bound  his  corpse  to  nod  by  my  side : 

Then  on  we  rode,  in  the  bright  March  weather, 
With  clash  of  cymbals  did  we  ride. 

We  ride  no  more,  no  more  together ; 

My  prison-bars  are  thick  and  strong, 
I  take  no  heed  of  any  weather. 

The  sweet  Saints  grant  I  live  not  long. 


223 


FATHER  JOHN'S  WAR-SONG 

The  Reapers. 

SO  many  reapers,  Father  John, 
So  many  reapers  and  no  Httle  son, 
To  meet  you  when  the  day  is  done, 
With  Httle  stiff  legs  to  waddle  and  run  ? 
Pray  you  beg,  borrow,  or  steal  one  son. 
Hurrah  for  the  corn-sheaves  of  Father  John ! 

Father  John. 
O  maiden  Mary,  be  wary,  be  wary  1 
And  go  not  down  to  the  river. 
Lest  the  kingfisher,  your  evil  wisher, 
Lure  you  down  to  the  river. 
Lest  your  white  feet  grow  muddy, 
Your  red  hair  too  ruddy 
With  the  river-mud  so  red  : 
But  when  you  are  wed 
224 


Go  down  to  the  river  ; 

O  maiden  Mary,  be  very  wary, 

And  dwell  among  the  corn  ! 

See,  this  dame  Alice,  maiden  Mary, 

Her  hair  is  thin  and  white. 

But  she  is  a  housewife  good  and  wary, 

And  a  great  steel  key  hangs  bright 

From  her  gown,  as  red  as  the  flowers  in  corn; 

She  is  good  and  old  like  the  autumn  corn. 

Maiden  Mary. 

This  is  knight  Roland,  Father  John, 
Stark  in  his  arms  from  a  field  half-won ; 
Ask  him  if  he  has  seen  your  son  : 
Roland,  lay  your  sword  on  the  corn, 
The  piled-up  sheaves  of  the  golden  corn. 

Knight  Roland. 
Why  does  she  kiss  me.  Father  John  ? 
She  is  my  true  love  truly  won  ; 
Under  my  helm  is  room  for  one, 
But  the  molten  lead-streams  trickle  and  run 
From  my  roof- tree,  burning  under  the  sun ; 
No  corn  to  burn,  we  had  eaten  the  corn. 
There  was  no  waste  of  the  golden  corn. 

225  Q 


Father  John. 

Ho,  you  reapers,  away  from  the  corn, 

To  march  with  the  banner  of  Father  John ! 

The  Reapers. 

We  will  win  a  house  for  Roland  his  son, 
And  for  maiden  Mary,  with  hair  like  corn. 
As  red  as  the  reddest  of  golden  corn. 

Omnes. 

Father  John,  you  have  got  you  a  son. 
Seven  feet  high  when  his  helm  is  on ! 
Pennon  of  Roland,  banner  of  John, 
Star  of  Mary,  march  well  on. 


226 


H 


SIR  GILES'  WAR-SONG 

0  /  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me. 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres  P 


The  clink  of  arms  is  good  to  hear, 
The  flap  of  pennons  fair  to  see ; 
Ho  !  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me. 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres  P 

The  leopards  and  lilies  are  fair  to  see, 
"  St.  George  Guienne  "  right  good  to  hear ; 
Ho  !  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me. 
Sir  Giles,  le  bon  des  barrieres  ? 

I  stood  by  the  barrier, 
My  coat  being  blazon'd  fair  to  see ; 
Ho  !  is  there  any  will  ride  with  me. 
Sir  Gilesy  le  bon  des  barrieres  P 
227 


Clisson  put  out  his  head  to  see, 
And  Hfted  his  basnet  up  to  hear  ; 

I  puird  him  through  the  bars  to  ME, 
Sir  Giles  y  le  hon  des  barrieres. 


22S 


NEAR  AVALON 

A  SHIP  with  shields  before  the  sun, 
Six  maidens  round  the  mast, 
A  red-gold  crown  on  every  one, 
A  green  gown  on  the  last. 

The  fluttering  green  banners  there 
Are  wrought  with  ladies'  heads  most  fair, 
And  a  portraiture  of  Guenevere 
The  middle  of  each  sail  doth  bear. 

A  ship  with  sails  before  the  wind. 

And  round  the  helm  six  knights. 

Their  heaumes  are  on,  whereby,  half  blind, 

They  pass  by  many  sights. 

The  tatter'd  scarlet  banners  there. 
Right  soon  will  leave  the  spear-heads  bare, 
Those  six  knights  sorrowfully  bear 
In  all  their  heaumes  some  yellow  hair. 

229 


PRAISE  OF  MY  LADY 

MY  lady  seems  of  ivory- 
Forehead,  straight  nose,  and  cheeks  that  be 
Hollow'd  a  little  mournfully. 

Beata  mea  Domina  I 

Her  forehead,  overshadow'd  much 
By  bows  of  hair,  has  a  wave  such 
As  God  was  good  to  make  for  me, 
Beata  mea  Domina  / 

Not  greatly  long  my  lady's  hair, 
Nor  yet  with  yellow  colour  fair, 
But  thick  and  crisped  wonderfully  : 
Beata  mea  Domina  / 

Heavy  to  make  the  pale  face  sad. 
And  dark,  but  dead  as  though  it  had 
Been  forged  by  God  most  wonderfully 
— Beata  mea  Domina  I — 
230 


Of  some  strange  metal,  thread  by  thread, 
To  stand  out  from  my  lady's  head, 
Not  moving  much  to  tangle  me. 

Beata  mea  Dom'tna  I 

Beneath  her  brows  the  lids  fall  slow, 
The  lashes  a  clear  shadow  throw 
Where  I  would  wish  my  lips  to  be. 
Beata  mea  Dom'tna ! 

Her  great  eyes,  standing  far  apart, 
Draw  up  some  memory  from  her  heart, 
And  gaze  out  very  mournfully ; 

— Beata  mea  Domina  / — 

So  beautiful  and  kind  they  are. 
But  most  times  looking  out  afar, 
Waiting  for  something,  not  for  me. 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

I  wonder  if  the  lashes  long 

Are  those  that  do  her  bright  eyes  wrong. 

For  always  half  tears  seem  to  be 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 
231 


Lurking  below  the  underlid, 
Darkening  the  place  where  they  lie  hid- 
If  they  should  rise  and  flow  for  me ! 
Beata  mea  Domina  / 

Her  full  lips  being  made  to  kiss, 
CurlM  up  and  pensive  each  one  is ; 
This  makes  me  faint  to  stand  and  see. 
Beata  mea  Domina  / 

Her  lips  are  not  contented  now, 
Because  the  hours  pass  so  slow 
Towards  a  sweet  time  :   (pray  for  me), 
— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 

Nay,  hold  thy  peace  !   for  who  can  tell  ; 
But  this  at  least  I  know  full  well. 
Her  lips  are  parted  longingly, 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 

So  passionate  and  swift  to  move. 
To  pluck  at  any  flying  love. 
That  I  grow  faint  to  stand  and  see. 
Beata  mea  Domina  / 


Yea  !  there  beneath  them  is  her  chin, 
So  fine  and  round,  it  were  a  sin 
To  feel  no  weaker  when  I  see 

— Beat  a  mea  Domina  J — 

God's  dealings  ;  for  with  so  much  care. 
And  troublous,  faint  lines  wrought  in  there, 
He  finishes  her  face  for  me. 

Beata  mea  Domina  / 

Of  her  long  neck  what  shall  I  say  ? 
What  things  about  her  body's  sway, 
Like  a  knight's  pennon  or  slim  tree 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 

Set  gently  waving  in  the  wind  ; 
Or  her  long  hands  that  I  may  find 
On  some  day  sweet  to  move  o'er  me  ? 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

God  pity  me  though,  if  I  miss'd 
The  telling,  how  along  her  wrist 
The  veins  creep,  dying  languidly 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 
233 


Inside  her  tender  palm  and  thin. 
Now  give  me  pardon,  dear,  wherein 
My  voice  is  weak  and  vexes  thee. 
Beata  mea  Domina  / 

All  men  that  see  her  any  time, 

I  charge  you  straightly  in  this  rhyme, 

What,  and  wherever  you  may  be, 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 

To  kneel  before  her  ;  as  for  me, 
I  choke  and  grow  quite  faint  to  see 
My  lady  moving  graciously. 

Beata  mea  Domina  ! 


234 


SUMMER   DAWN 

PRAY  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed 
lips, 

Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars. 
The  summer  night  waneth,  the  morning  light  slips, 

Faint  and  grey  'twixt  the  leaves  of  the  aspen,  betwixt 
the  cloud-bars, 
That  are  patiently  waiting  there  for  the  dawn  : 

Patient  and  colourless,  though  Heaven's  gold 
Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 
Far  out  in  the  meadows,  above  the  young  corn. 

The  heavy  elms  wait,  and  restless  and  cold 
The  uneasy  wind  rises ;  the  roses  are  dun  ; 
Through  the  long  twilight  they  pray  for  the  dawn. 
Round  the  lone  house  in  the  midst  of  the  corn. 

Speak  but  one  word  to  me  over  the  corn, 

Over  the  tender,  bow'd  locks  of  the  corn. 


235 


IN  PRISON 

WEARILY,  drearily, 
Half  the  day  long, 
Flap  the  great  banners 
High  over  the  stone  ; 
Strangely  and  eerily 
Sounds  the  wind's  song. 
Bending  the  banner-poles. 

While,  all  alone. 

Watching  the  loophole's  spark. 

Lie  I,  with  life  all  dark, 

Feet  tether'd,  hands  fetter'd 

Fast  to  the  stone. 

The  grim  walls,  square  lettered 

With  prison'd  men's  groan. 

Still  strain  the  banner-poles 
Through  the  wind's  song. 
Westward  the  banner  rolls 
Over  my  wrong. 
236 


NOTES 


NOTES 


Page  I.  *'  Gauivaifte."  Morris  has  here  substituted  Gau- 
waine  for  his  brother  Agravaine,  who  is  the  accuser  and 
judge  of  Guinevere  both  in  Malory  and  in  the  French  prose 
Morte  d^Artur.  In  Malory,  Gauwaine  makes  an  eloquent 
appeal  on  her  behalf  to  Arthur  (Book  xx.  c.  vii.,  p.  808, 
ed.  Sommer). 

Page  4.  ^^  at  Christmas -time  This  happenea.^^  This  account 
of  Launcelot's  coming  to  Arthur's  court  is  entirely  of  Morris's 
invention,  as  Malory  brings  Launcelot  into  his  story  with- 
out any  preliminary  introduction. 

Page  7.  '*  Came  Launcelot  lualking,"  Malory  omits  also 
the  first  declaration  of  love  between  Launcelot  and  Guinevere 
— one  of  the  most  charming  passages  in  medieval  prose. 
Galehault,  his  intimate  friend,  having  guessed  his  secret, 
brings  about  a  meeting  in  the  presence  of  the  Dame  de 
Malehault,  who  gives  the  warning  cough  familiar  to  readers 
of  Dante. 

Page  8.  '*  Remember  in  ivhat  grave  your  mother  sleeps ^  Mor- 
gause,  wife  of  King  Lot,  was  Arthur's  sister,  and  mother  of 
Gauwaine,  Agravaine,  Gaheriet,  Gareth,  and  afterwards  of 
Mordred.     Her  death  is  another  of  Morris's  inventions. 

239 


NOTES 

Page  9.  "  Mellyagraunce,''^  Launcelot,.  coming  to  see  the 
queen  one  day  in  her  chamber,  dropped  some  blood  on  the 
coverlet.  Kay  was  lying  wounded  in  the  room,  and  Melly- 
agraunce,  her  captor,  accused  them  of  misconduct,  and  met 
his  death  at  the  hands  of  Launcelot  ultimately,  though  not 
in  the  judicial  battle  which  attested  Guinevere's  innocence. 
The  story  of  the  battle  is  taken  from  Malory  (Book  xix.  c. 
9,  p.  786,  ed.  Sommer). 

Page  9.     *'/^  Fausse  Garde, ''^     Mellyagraunce's  castle. 

Page  20.  "  I  tell  myself  a  tale."  Morris  once  said  to  the 
writer,  "I  never  walk  behind  a  man  in  the  street,  or  sit 
opposite  him  in  a  railway  carriage,  without  making  up  a 
story  about  him  and  his  doings." 

Page  20.  ^^  Gareth."  Brother  of  Sir  Gauwaine.  He  was 
compared  by  King  Arthur  to  an  eager  wolf.     See  p.  34,  &c. 

Page  20.  "  Dinadan."  Sir  Dinadan  was  a  knight  of 
sportive  mind,  who  had  occasional  gleams  of  common-sense, 
which  being  incomprehensible  to  them,  were  the  joy  of 
Arthur's  court.     He  figures  often  in  the  Tristram  stories. 

Page  21.  ^^  the  stroke  Whereiuith  Goa  threiv  all  men  upon  the 
face,  ^^."  A  rabbinical  story,  also  found  in  Mohammedan 
legend. 

Page  22.  "  boddice."  This  legitimate  and  etymologically 
correct  spelling  is  altered  in  the  later  editions  to  "  bodice." 

Page  22.  ^^  there  ivere  no  colours  then,"  In  moonlight  one 
cannot  distinguish  colour. 

Page  22.  *«  Maiden  Margaret."  This  is  probably  not  St. 
Margaret  of  Antioch  but  St.  Margaret  Pelagian,  who  for 
the  love  of  virginity  ran  away  on  her  wedding  night,  and 
taking  the  name  of  Pelagian  became  a  monk.  Being  ap- 
pointed prior  of  a  convent  of  nuns,  she  fell  under  suspicion 
of  unchastity  with  one  of  them  and  was  immured  for  life. 
On  the  point  of  death  she  confessed  her  sex,  and  was  buried 
240 


NOTES 

in  honour.  '*  Insomuch  as  she  was  named  Margaret,  she  is 
always  likened  to  a  flower,  for  she  had  in  her  flower  of  her 
virginity "  (Caxton,  Golden  Legend),  But  the  scarlet  lilies 
would  also  be  appropriate  to  St  Margaret  of  Antioch  as  a 
virgin  martyr.     See  note  to  p.  49. 

Page  24.  '■^  by  the  thorn-tree  Wherefrom  St,  Joseph  in  the 
days  past  preached, "  Joseph  of  Arimathea  is  said  to  have  in- 
troduced Christianity  into  Britain  and  to  have  founded  the 
Abbey  of  Glastonbury.  His  staff'  miraculously  budded  there, 
and  grew  into  a  thorn-tree,  which  blossomed  at  Christmas 
each  year.  A  full  account  of  the  legend  may  be  found  in 
Skeat's  Joseph  of  Arithmathie  (E.E.T.S.). 

Page  27.  ^^  If  even  I  go  hell,  I  cannot  choose.'^  The  Kelms- 
cott  Press  edition  inserts  "  to  ''  before  "  hell." 

Page  28.  "  Fair  serpent  marU'd  ivith  V  upon  the  head,^^  The 
line  refers  to  the  markings  on  the  head  of  poisonous  snakes. 

Page  29.  ^^  Lucius,  the  Emperor,''^  In  Malory,  it  was 
Arthur  who  killed  Lucius,  who  was  sent  embalmed  to  Rome. 

Page.  31,  **  Breuse  even,  as  he  rode,  feared  lest,  l^c."  Breuse 
sans  pitie,  the  brown  knight  without  pity,  was  a  felon 
knight  whose  name  often  occurs  in  Malory  as  an  antagonist 
of  the  Round  Table.     He  was  slain  by  Gareth. 

Page  32.  ^^Iseultfrom  the  West,  Or,  better  still,  Leult  of  Brit- 
tany.^^  The  two  loves  of  Tristram,  the  latter — Iseult  of  the 
White  Hands — was  the  sister  of  his  companion  and  his  wife. 
Swinburne's  splendid  poem  should  be  read  for  the  story. 

Page  34.  '<  And  by  him  Palomydes."  Palomydes,  the  good 
knight,  was  the  unsuccessful  lover  of  Iseult  and  rival  of 
Tristram.  Beast  Glatysaunt,  or  the  Questing  Beast,  <*  had 
in  shape  a  head  like  a  leopard,  buttocks  like  a  lion,  and 
footed  like  a  hart,  and  in  its  body  was  such  a  noise  as  if  it 
had  been  the  noise  of  thirty  couple  of  hounds  questing." 
This  beast  was  continually  pursued  by  Palomydes  who  was 
241  R 


NOTES 

a  heathen,  but  at  the  last  was  reconciled  to  Tristram  and 
baptized.  Palomydes  adopted  the  beast  as  his  device.  See 
also  pp.  42,  46. 

Page  35.  ^''  Kay^  Kay,  the  son  of  Sir  Ector,  was  the 
seneschal  of  Arthur's  court.  In  the  stories  he  continually 
undertakes  tasks  he  is  unable  to  perform,  and  suffers  defeat 
in  the  combats  he  wages. 

Page  36.  *<  Malay's  crease:'  Cf.  Tennyson  (1847),  "  The 
cursed  Malayan  crease." 

Page  41.  ^'' Sir  Galahad:^  Galahad  was  the  only  son 
of  Launcelot.  His  mother  was  Elaine,  daughter  of  King 
Pelles,  guardian  of  the  Holy  Grail.  He  was  the  ideal  of 
knightly  purity,  a  Launcelot  without  his  faults.  It  is  not 
without  interest  that  Launcelot's  own  name  was  at  first 
Galahad. 

Page  43.  '*  Candlemas y  February  2nd.  The  Feast  of 
the  Purification  of  the  Virgin. 

Page  44.  ^^  the  Sangreal"  The  Holy  Graal  is  in  the 
legend  a  vessel  in  which  some  drops  of  the  Redeemer's  blood 
were  preserved.  It  appeared  from  time  to  time,  and  its 
legend  was  early  in  the  13th  century  incorporated  in  an 
immense  cycle  of  tales  best  read  in  Paulin  Paris's  abridg- 
ment, Legendes  de  la  Table  Ronde.  Malory  gives  a  good 
account  of  the  latter  part  of  its  history  in  the  Quest  of  the 
Holy  Grail. 

Page  44.  <'  Mador  de  la  porte.  "  One  of  the  best  knights 
of  the  Round  Table.  He  is  mentioned  by  Malory  as  mis- 
takenly accusing  Guinevere  of  poisoning  his  cousin  Patrice, 
when  she  was  rescued  by  Launcelot  in  a  judicial  combat, 
and  again  as  one  of  the  twelve  knights,  who  accompanied 
Mordred  in  his  attempt  to  seize  Launcelot  in  the  queen's 
chamber,  and  were  slain  there. 
242 


NOTES 

Page  45.  "  'whose  sivordjird  made  him  knight.^''  i.e.  Arthur, 
who  knighted  Launcelot,  still  loves  and  trusts  him,  and  this 
treachery  wounds  the  High  God. 

Page  46.  ''^  destrier y  A  war-horse  or  charger,  so  called 
because  led  by  the  squire  with  his  right  hand. 

Page  46.      *'  Palomyaes.''^     See  note  to  p.  34. 

Page  48.  ^^  the  ivondrous  ship  ivherein  The  spindles  of  King 
Solomon  are  laid^  tfft."  A  full  account  of  these  marvels  is 
found  in  Malory,  Book  xviii.  c.  v.-vii. ,  p.  696,  &c. ,  ed. 
Sommer.  The  spindles  were  made  of  a  tree  brought  from 
Paradise  by  Eve,  originally  white,  green  at  the  first  birth, 
and  red  at  the  first  murder.  Solomon's  wife,  who  was  an 
evil  woman,  made  three  spindles  from  the  wood  of  this  tree, 
which  with  David's  sword  were  put  in  a  ship  and  set  afloat. 
No  one  but  a  true  believer  could  enter  the  ship,  and  if  the 
sword  were  handled  by  any  one  but  the  destined  knight, 
evil  came  to  him. 

Page  49.  *'  Margaret  of  Antioch,''^  Margaret  was  the 
daughter  of  Theodosius,  High  Priest  of  Antioch,  and  was 
beloved  by  Olybrius  the  Prefect.  She  suffered  martyrdom 
for  her  refusal  to  sacrifice  or  to  marry  him,  after  many 
tortures  and  temptations  of  the  devil,  in  one  of  which  a 
dragon  essayed  to  swallow  her,  but  she  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  he  "  brake  asunder,  and  so  she  issued  out  all  whole 
and  sound."     This  incident  often  appears  in  frescoes. 

Page  49.  ''  Cecily.''^  St.  Cecily  was  the  daughter  01  a 
noble  Roman,  who,  betrothed  and  married  to  Valerian,  per- 
suaded him  to  join  her  in  a  life  of  perpetual  virginity. 
They  were  martyred  at  Rome. 

Page  49.  '*Zi/c:y."  St.  Lucy  was  born  at  Syracuse  of  a 
noble  lineage.  She  sold  her  patrimony  and  gave  it  to  the 
poor,  whereon  her  betrothed  lodged  a  complaint  against  her 
before  Paschasius,  who  finally  ordered  her  to  be  the  sport  of 
ribalds,  and  finding  them  unable  to  come  near  her,  caused 
her  to  be  martyred.     She  was  the  patron  saint  of  Syracuse. 

^43 


NOTES 

Page  49.  ^^  Katlierhiey  St.  Katharine  was  Queen  of 
Alexandria,  and  refusing  an  earthly  spouse  was  mystically 
married  to  Christ.  Maxentius  the  Emperor  came  to  Alex- 
andria, and  at  his  orders  fifty  philosophers  tried  to  convert 
her  to  paganism.  Her  reasonings  converted  them,  and  they 
were  martyred,  she  being  imprisoned  without  food  for 
twelve  days.  After  this  she  was  set  between  wheels  armed 
with  knives,  and  when  these  could  not  harm  her  she  was 
beheaded.  Her  memory  survives  in  the  Catherine  wheels  of 
childhood. 

Page  50.  ^'- Poor  merry  DinaaanJ'^  The  death  of  Dinadan 
is  not  recorded  in  Malory. 

Page  51.  ^^  Lauvaine."  Lauvaine  was  the  brother  of 
Elaine  of  Astolat.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to  come  after 
Launcelot  in  his  attempted  rescue  of  Guinevere  from 
Mellyagraunce. 

Page  55.  ^^The  Chapel  in  Lyoness"  This  first  appeared 
in  the  September  number  of  the  Oxfora  and  Cambridge 
Maga zinCy   1 8  5  6 . 

Page  55.  *'  Sir  Ozana  le  cure  Hardy. ^^  The  whole  of  this 
story  is  entirely  of  the  poet's  invention,  as  no  germ  of  it 
exists  in  Malory — though  other  knights  lay  wounded  as 
here  described.  Sir  Ozana  was  a  well-known  figure  in 
Malory. 

Page  55.  *^ parclose."  A  parclose  is  a  screen  or  railing 
made  to  separate  or  inclose  any  object  or  place,  such  as  a 
tomb  or  an  altar  in  a  church. 

Page  56.  ^^  samite."  Originally  a  heavy  silk  material  of 
which  each  thread  was  supposed  to  contain  six  fibres 
(hexamitum)^  it  came  to  mean  any  rich  heavy  silk,  especially 
that  with  a  satin-like  gloss. 

Page  58.     "  Sir  Bars,"     Bors  was  a  cousin  of  Launcelot, 
and  one  of  his  most  trusted  friends. 
244 


NOTES 

Page  63.  *'  Sir  Peter  Harfidon,"  The  name  was  probably- 
suggested  to  the  poet  by  John  Harpeden  who  married  a 
cousin  of  Clisson's.  Sir  Peter  is,  of  course,  a  creature  of 
fiction. 

Page  66.  "  Cllsson  or  Sanxere."  Oliver  de  Clisson  first 
fought  on  the  English  side  but  joined  the  French  in  1367, 
became  brother-in-arms  of  Du  Guesclin  in  1369,  Constable 
of  France  in  1380.     He  has  been  surnamed  *'  the  Butcher." 

Louis  de  Sancerre  was  one  of  the  French  leaders, 
Marechal  in  1369,  and  Constable  in  1397.  One  of  the 
brothers-in-arms  of  Du  Guesclin. 

Page  66.  ^' At  Lusac  bridge^  tff^;."  Lusac-les-Chateaux, 
on  the  Vienne,  nine  miles  from  Montmorillon.  Here 
Chandos  was  killed.  See  Froissart,  vol.  xvii.  p.  493,  ed. 
Lettenhove. 

Page  67.  ^^  Guesclin. ^^  Bertrand  du  Guesclin,  1320-1380, 
a  Breton  gentleman,  Constable  of  France,  was  one  of  the 
bravest  soldiers  and  tacticians  of  his  period.  His  career 
was  one  long  series  of  combats  and  adventures,  but  he  only- 
resembled  the  knights  of  chivalry  in  his  courage  and  respect 
for  his  word. 

Page  67.  ^^ petrariae,^^  Large  catapults  for  hurling  stones 
in  war. 

Page  70.  "  Balen.''^  Balen,  the  knight  with  two  swords, 
goes  through  a  number  of  adventures  in  Malory,  but  is 
always  unfortunate  even  in  success.  He  finally  kills  his 
brother  unwittingly,  and  dies  of  the  wounds  received. 

Page  70.  ^^Bergerath."  Bergerac,  on  the  Dordogne,  was 
long  a  subject  of  contention  between  the  Kings  of  England 
and  France.  In  1367  it  was  in  French  hands,  but  in  1375 
it  seems  to  have  been  besieged  by  Du  Guesclin.  See 
Froissart,  vol.  xxiv.  p.  89,  ed.  Lettenhove. 


72.      ^^  archgai/s."      An  iron-pointed  wooden  spear. 
The  word  is  always  spelt  in  three  syllables,  archegay. 
245 


NOTES 

Page  85.  ' '  Do  you  care  altogether  more  than  France.  '*  "  Than  " 
is  an  obvious  misprint  for  "for." 

Page  85.  ^^  Andf  somehoiv  clad  in  poor  old  rusty  artns.^^  A 
reference  to  an  early  legendary  adventure  of  Du  Guesclin's 
when  shut  out  from  a  tournament  on  account  of  his  youth. 

Page  86.  ^^ grey  monh.^^  "  Wishing  ivell  for  Clement,^* 
Grey  monks  are  Cistercians,  who,  having  large  possessions 
in  England,  were,  in  general,  sympathisers  with  its  rule. 
Clement  VII.  (1378-94)  was  the  French  anti-pope  at  the 
time,  while  the  English  recognised  Urban  VI. ,  and  a  change 
of  allegiance  necessitated  a  change  of  Pope,  though  many  of 
the  religious  orders  refused  to  declare  themselves  in  favour 
of  one  or  the  other  candidate. 

Page  87.  "  Friend oj  the  constable.''*  Bertrand  du  Guesclin 
was  Constable  of  France,  2nd  Oct.,  1370.  He  was  the 
brother-in-arms  of  Olivier  de  Clisson  from  Oct.  1369. 

Page  97.  ^^  lombards.^^  Cannon  of  heavy  calibre,  firing 
stone  balls. 

Page  97.  ^^  base-court.  ^^  The  lower  or  outer  court  of  a 
castle  or  mansion,  occupied  by  the  servants. 

Page  loi.  *'  Or  high  up  in  the  dustiness  of  the  apse.^^  This 
was  altered  later  to  "  duskness." 

Page  102.  "  Countess  Mountfort.^^  The  fortunate  knight 
was  Sir  Walter  de  Manny,  who  had  ridden  into  Brittany  to 
her  rescue. 

Page  103.  ^^  Launcelot  or  Wade.''^  This  comparison  is 
taken  from  Malory  when  Lynet  is  mocking  Gareth  after 
his  encounter  with  the  Green  Knight.  "Were  thou  as 
wight  as  ever  was  Wade  or  Launcelot,"  &c.  Wade  is  a 
mythical  Teutonic  hero,  belonging  to  the  cycle  of  Weyland, 
the  Smith. 

Page  105.  "  muckle."  This  is  altered  later  to  "  mickle," 
both  meaning  the  same  thing  ;  but  '<  muckle"  is  a  northern 
form. 

246 


NOTES 

Page  114.  ^^  On  the  foiver-carven  marble  could  see.^*  <<  I  "  has 
evidently  dropped  out  before  "  see."  It  was  replaced  in  the 
Kelmscott  Press  edition. 

Page  119.  ^*  And  let  gold  Michael y  ivho  look^a  doivn^  When  I 
ivas  there  J  on  Rouen  toivn."  ^'  Less  than  forty  years  ago  [in 
1854]  I  first  saw  the  city  of  Rouen,  then  still  in  its  outward 
aspect  a  piece  of  the  Middle  Ages :  no  words  can  tell  you 
how  its  mingled  beauty,  history,  and  romance  took  hold  on 
me  :  I  can  only  say  that,  looking  back  on  my  past  life,  I 
find  it  was  the  greatest  pleasure  I  have  ever  had  :  and  now 
it  is  a  pleasure  which  no  one  can  ever  have  again  :  it  is  lost 
to  the  world  for  ever  "  (W.  Morris,  The  Aims  of  Arty 

Page  122.  "  The  shoiver^d  mail-rings  on  the  speed-ivalk  lay.^"* 
In  the  Kelmscott  Press  edition  '*  speedwell"  was  substituted 
for  '<  speed-walk." 

Page  125.  The  Prince'' s  Song.  This  song,  under  the  title 
of  "  Hands,"  first  appeared  in  the  July  number  of  the 
Oxford  and  Camhriage  Magazine y  1 856. 

Page  133,  '<  Ge£ray  Teste  Noire. ^^  This  freebooter  was  a 
Breton  leader  of  free  companions,  and  his  doings  with  those 
of  Sir  John  Bonne  Lance  and  others  may  be  read  in  Froissart 
(vol.  xiii.  p.  45,  &c.,  ed.  Lettenhove). 

Page  133.  ^^  And  if  you  meet  the  Canon  of  Chimay.'^  The 
Canon  of  Chimay  was  John  Froissart.  Here  is  Morris's 
own  account  of  him.  «'  As  the  tale  is  here  told,  its  incidents, 
often  the  very  words  of  them,  are  taken  from  the  writings 
of  one  of  those  men  who  make  past  times  live  before  our 
eyes  for  ever.  John  Froissart,  Canon  of  Chimay,  in  Hain- 
ault,  was  indeed  but  a  hanger-on  of  the  aristocracy  .  .  .  but 
class-lying  was  not  the  fine  art  which  it  has  since  become ; 
and  the  simpler  habits  of  thought  of  Froissart's  days  gave 
people  intense  delight  in  the  stories  of  deeds  done,  and  de- 
veloped in  them  what  has  been  called  epic  impartiality  .  .  . 
Englishman,  Scotchman,  Fleming,  Spaniard,  Frenchman, 
247 


NOTES 

Gascon,  Breton  are  treated  by  John  Froissart  as  men 
capable  of  valiancy,  their  deeds  to  be  told  of  and  listened  to 
with  little  comment  of  blame  or  discrimination  :  and  I  think 
you  will  say  before  you  have  done  with  him,  that  he  could 
even  see  the  good  side  of  the  revolutionary  characters  of  his 
time,  so  long  as  they  were  not  slack  in  noble  deeds.  .  .  . 
John  Froissart  has  given  me  at  least  as  much  pleasure  as  he 
did  to  any  one  of  the  lords,  ladies,  knights,  squires,  and 
sergeants  who  first  heard  him  read." 

Page  133.  *■'' bastides^^  Temporary  huts  or  towers  erected 
for  besieging  purposes. 

Page  134.  *''■  Veutadoury  The  ruins  of  the  castle  can  still 
be  seen  at  Moustier-Ventadour  (Correze).  A  full  account 
of  it  is  given  in  Froissart  (ed.  Kervyn  de  Lettenhove),  and  a 
curious  deposition  of  one  of  GefTray  Teste  Noire's  servants, 
Guillaume  de  Bouc,  is  preserved  in  the  Registers  of  the 
Chatelet. 

Page  134.  "  camailhy  A  mailed  defence  of  chain  armour 
for  the  neck  and  shoulders.  It  was  covered  by  a  plate 
which  formed  part  of  the  basinet. 

Page  135.  ^^  Carcassoney  "One  of  the  strong  cities  of 
the  world,  for  it  is  placed  high  and  all  on  a  rock,  and  well 
closed  with  towers  and  walls  and  gates  of  grey  stone." — 
Froissart,  It  was  one  of  the  principal  cities  of  France,  but 
suffered  much  in  the  Black  Death,  and  from  the  English  in 
1356.     "  Verville"  is  an  invented  name. 

Page  135.  *'  horse  in  Job.^^  ''  He  swalloweth  the  ground 
with  fierceness  and  rage :  neither  believeth  he  that  it  is  the 
sound  of  the  trumpet.  He  saith  among  the  trumpets.  Ha, 
Ha ;  and  he  smelleth  the  battle  afar  off,  the  thunder  of  the 
captains,  and  the  shouting  "  (Job  xxxix.  24). 

Page  137.  ^^The  Jacquerie."  "After  the  victory  of  the 
English  at  Poitiers,  an  outburst  of  patriotic  anger  and  revolt 

248 


NOTES 

brought  about  the  Jacquerie.  *  They  could  no  longer  sup- 
port the  ills  which  oppressed  them,  and  seeing  that  their 
lords,  far  from  defending  them,  used  them  worse  than  their 
enemies,  the  peasants  thought  they  had  a  right  to  rebel, 
taking  their  vengeance  into  their  own  hands.'  A  certain 
Guillaume  Caillet  led  the  mob :  his  nickname,  Jacques  Bon- 
homme,  has  stuck  to  the  French  peasant  ever  since.  Soon 
he  had  a  following  of  a  hundred  thousand  men  as  fierce, 
ignorant,  untrained  as  a  hundred  thousand  gorillas,  and 
great  were  their  excesses.  How  the  King  of  Navarre  and 
the  Count  of  Foix  rode  across  France,  killing  the  villainous 
Jacques  '  in  great  heaps,  like  beasts  ' ;  hunting  them  down, 
in  a  battue  ;  driving  them  into  the  Marne  to  drown  ;  burn- 
ing wholesale  them  and  their  villages — all  this,  is  it  not 
written  in  the  chronicles  of  Froissart  ?  "  (Mme.  Duclaux). 
On  the  other  hand,  M.  Coville,  the  most  recent  historian  of 
the  period,  is  disposed  to  minimise  the  excesses  of  the  rebels. 
They  burnt  the  chateaux  and  chased  the  nobles,  but  only 
thirty  victims  of  the  insurrection  are  known,  the  rapes  and 
murders  reported  being  hearsay,  and  against  them  may  be 
put  the  thousands  of  Jacques  destroyed  in  reprisal.  See 
Colville,  Histoire  de  France  (ed.  Lavisse),  vol.  4,  2,  2,  for  a 
full  account. 

Page  138.  ^*  Beawvah^  Beauvais  was  the  centre  of  the 
Jacquerie  and  one  of  the  last  places  to  be  subdued.  The 
<' great  church"  is  the  wonderful  cathedral  of  Beauvais, 
always  a  special  object  of  love  to  the  poet. 

Page  142.      "  John  Froissart y     See  note  p.  133. 

Page  142.  "  Jaques  Picard.''^  A  name  of  the  poet's  in- 
vention. There  is  a  famous  sculptor  of  the  time  mentioned 
in  Froissart  of  another  name. 

Page  148.  '*  la perriere,*^  The  perrier  is  the  same  as  the 
petrary,  a  military  catapult. 

Page   1 50.      *  ^  Thei^  hammered  out  my  basnet-point     Into  a  round 
salade,  ^ifr,"     The  basinet  was  a  small,  light,  steel  headpiece, 
249 


NOTES 

in  shape  somewhat  globular,  terminating  in  a  point  raised 
slightly  above  the  head,  and  closed  in  front  with  a  ventail 
or  visor.  The  salade  (or  sallet)  has  rounded  surfaces  every- 
where, and  is  distinguished  by  a  fixed  projection  behind. 

Page  151.  ^^  no  Venice  jlag  Can  JJy  unpa'ia  for.^*  Venice 
was  in  the  habit  of  paying  an  annual  tribute  to  the  Sultan 
for  trading  privileges.  In  1478  this  amounted  to  10,000 
ducats,  but  this  was  a  century  later.  At  the  time  of  the 
poem  Venice  was  engaged  in  its  death-struggle  with  Genoa. 

Page  155.  "  Honneur  aux  fils  des  preux  !  "  The  cry  of  the 
heralds  in  the  intervals  of  the  tourney. 

Page  162.  ''  Lambert,  banneret  of  the  tuood^  The  distinc- 
tion between  knight  and  banneret  was  made  by  the  king 
cutting  off  the  tails  of  the  knight's  pennon  on  the  field  of 
battle  after  a  victory. 

Page  168.   "  taberd."  This  is  the  old  spelling  for  ''  tabard." 

Page  180.  "77/^  ivina.''^  This  is  perhaps  the  most  re- 
markable phrase  of  the  volume  for  its  success  in  reproducing 
the  emotional  effect  of  music  independently  of  thought  or 
the  story  told. 

Page  187.  "  r//<?'yro«."  A  chevron  on  a  banner  is  a  device 
consisting  of  a  bar  bent  like  two  meeting  rafters.  The  device 
is  here  the  principal  thing  seen,  and  the  rest  of  the  banner 
is  neglected,  as  we  say  "  the  lions  of  England  floated  in  the 
breeze." 

Page  195.  "a  thing  to  mhid.^^  A  thing  to  remember,  to 
bear  in  mind. 

Page  197.  "  Undern."  Tierce,  nine  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, or  the  period  from  that  hour  to  noon.  It  is  here  pro- 
bably used  as  a  derived  word  for  the  afternoon,  in  the  same 
way  as  "undermeal"  was  used  by  Elizabethan  writers  for 
the  afternoon's  refreshment,  though  it  refers  to  the  undern 
meal. 

250 


NOTES 

Page  214.  "  Tivo  red  roses  across  the  moon."  The  knight's 
arms — as  the  poet  on  one  occasion  remarked  to  the  writer. 

Page  218.  ^^  bascinet"  ^^  Collayne  szvord."  Bascinet  is 
basinet.  CoUayne  is  Cologne.  The  best  steel  at  the  time 
was  reputed  to  come  from  Cologne,  as  in  the  ballad  of 
Otterhurnn  and  in  the  Percy  Ballads,      See  note  to  p.  150. 

Page  218.     ^^  tene"    Grief,  sorrow,  trouble.     See  Chaucer: 

Almighty  and  al  merciable  Quene, 

To  whom  that  al  this  world  fleeth  for  socour, 

To  have  relees  of  sinne,  sorwe,  and  tene. 

A,  B,  C,  1.  3. 
Page  219.     "  burd,"     Young  lady,  maiden. 

Page  219.     ^^fell."     The  skin  with  its  hair,  &c. 

Page  221.  ^^  Riding  Together."  This  poem  first  appeared 
in  the  May  number  of  the  Oxfora  and  Cambridge  Magazine^ 
1836.  A  very  beautiful  and  somewhat  similar  one  ''  Winter 
Weather  "  is  in  the  January  number. 

Page  227.  ''  Sir  Giles'  War-Song."  There  is  extant  a 
letter  from  Browning  to  Morris,  congratulating  him  on  the 
Earthly  Paradise  and  mentioning  this  little  poem.  "  It  is  a 
double  delight  to  me  to  read  such  poetry,  and  know  you  of 
all  the  world  wrote  it, — you  whose  songs  I  used  to  sing 
while  galloping  by  Fiesole  in  old  days, — '  Ho,  is  there  any 
will  ride  with  me  ?  '  " 

Page  227.  ^''leopards  and  lilies"  The  arms  of  England 
and  France  quartered  worn  by  the  English  king. 

Page  229.  **  A  ship  ivith  sails  before  the  ivind."  This  has 
been  altered,  without  improving  it,  by  substituting  ' '  which  " 
for  "with." 


NOTES 

Page  230,  ^^  Praise  of  My  Lady^  Written  at  Man- 
chester in  1857  while  on  a  visit  to  Canon  Dixon. 

Page  235.  '*  Summer  Baivn,"*^  This  poem  first  appeared, 
under  the  title  of  "  Pray  but  One  Prayer  for  Me,"  in  the 
October  number  of  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine^  1 85 6. 

Page  235.  *'  Through  the  long  tivilight  they  pray  for  the 
daivn^  In  the  Kelmscott  Press  edition  the  poet  avoids  the 
Cockney  rhyme  of  "dawn"  and  "corn"  by  altering  his 
line  into  "They  pray  the  long  gloom  through  for  daylight 
new  born,"  but  he  evidently  did  not  notice  that  the  same 
rhyme  is  used  three  lines  before.  The  new  line  is  hardly  an 
improvement. 


252 


INDEX 


Agravaine,  8,  239. 

Alice  de  la  Barde,  68,  71,  81,  90, 

51,  92,  93,  96,  97,  98,  100,  lOI. 
Alice,  159. 

Alice,  Lady,  i86,  187. 
Alicia,  171,  172,  173. 
Aquadent,  Jacques,  63,  64. 
Arthur,  King,  4,  24,  25,  27,  30,  36, 

198. 
Arthur,  189. 
Auvergne,  134. 
Avalon,  95,  198,  229. 

Balen,  70,  245. 
Ballad  poetry,  xvi. 
Ban,  King,  4. 
Beauvais,  138. 
Benwick,  4. 
Bergerath,  70,  245. 
Berry,  Duke  of,  133. 
Blake,  xiv. 

Bois,  Sir  Lambert  de,  161. 
Bordeaux,  93. 
Breuse,  31,  241. 
Brownings,  The,  xli,  xlii. 
Burne-Jones,  xxxiv,  xxxvii. 
Byron,  xxiii. 

Camelot,  26,  31,  32,  144. 

Carlyle,  xxvii. 

Castel,  Jehane  du,  196,  197,  199, 

204,  205. 
Cecily,  49.  243. 
Chandos,  66,  69. 


Charles,  King,  133. 

Charterhouse,  66. 

Chatterton,  xx. 

Chimay,  Canon  of,  133,  247.     See 

Froissart. 
Clisson,  66,  84,  86,  88,  50,  91,  92, 

94,  96,  100,  1 01,  245. 
Coleridge,  xxii,  xxvi. 
Constance,  196. 
Constantiue,  151. 
Curzon,  John,  63,  64,  65,  66,  67, 

7ij  72,  73j  78,  79>  80,  81,  82,  83. 

Dinadan,  34,  35,  50. 
Dixon,  Canon,  xxxv,  xxxvi. 

Ellayne,  216,  217,  218,  219. 
Enoch,  21. 

France,  Philip  of,  162. 

France,  66,  74. 

Froissart,  xlv.  sqq.,  142,  247. 

Galahad,  Sir,  xliv,  41, 42,  43,  45,  46, 

47.  48,  49.  50,  55,  57»  58,  59,  242. 

Ganys,  Sir  Bors  de,  49,  50,  55,  58, 

^59-       ^. 

Gareth,  Su:,  20,  34,  35,  239,  240. 

Gascons,  67.  _ 

Gauwaine,  Sir,  xliii,  xliv,  xlv,  i, 

^3>  8,  9,  14,  34,  5.1,  239- 

Geflfray  Teste  Noire,  133, 134, 135, 

136,  142,  247. 
Gervaise,  Sir,  196,  197. 


»53 


INDEX 


Giles,  Sir,  150,  154,  227,  228. 
Giles,  196,  197,  204. 
Glastonbury,  19,  24. 
Glatysaunt,  34,  241. 
Godmar,  207,  208,  210,  211,  212, 

213. 
Graal,  xliii,  xliv. 

Guendolen,  125,  126,  127,  128,  129. 
Guenevere,  Queen,  i,  7,  19,  20,  21, 

23>  25,  27,  28,  31,  35,  43,  229. 
Guesclin,  du,  67,  71,  84,  87,  88,  94, 

99,  102. 
Guilbert,  King,  143,  144. 
Guillaume,  Sieur,  155,  156. 
Guy,  Sir,  143,  147,  148,  158,  159. 

Hardy,  Sir  Ozana  le  Cure,  55,  56, 

57.  58,  59- 
Harpdon,  Sir  Peter,  63,  64,  65,  66, 

67,  68,  72,  73,  74,  75,  77,  78,  79. 

80,  8i,  82,  83,  84,  87,  88,  89,  90, 

97,  245. 
Hector,  76. 
Helen,  76. 
Hugh,  Sir,  159. 

Isabeau,  196,  204. 
Iseult  of  Brittany,  32,  35,  42,  46, 
241. 

Jehane,  209,  210,  211. 
John,  Father,  224,  225,  226. 
John,  Sir,  150,  158. 
John  of  Castleneuf,  i33'  ^, 
Joseph  of  Arimathea,  xliii,  24,  241. 

Katherine,  Saint,  49,  244. 
Kay,  35,  240,  242. 

La  fausse  Garde,  9,  240. 
Lambert,  Sir,  6S,  70,  72,  74,  75, 

77,  78,  79,  80,  81,  82,  83,  84,  91. 
Lance,  Sir  John  Bonne,  133,  135, 

247. 
Launcelot,  Sir,  xliv,  xlv,  3,  4,  7, 
E:io,  II,  12,  13,  14,  15,  19,  20,  23, 

25,  27,  28,  29,  30,  31,  32,  33,  34, 

35,  36,  37,  43,  45)  48,  5°,  5i,  io3, 

104,  147,  148,  239. 


Lauvaine,  51,  244. 

Lionel,  Sir,  51. 

Louise,  Lady,  186,  188,  189. 

Lucius,  Emperor,  29,  30,  241. 

Lucy,  Saint,  49,  243. 

Lusac  Bridge,  66,  68,  70,  245. 

Macpherson,  xiv. 

Mador  de  la  Porte,  44,  242. 

Malony,  xliii. 

Margaret,  Saint,  22,  49,  240,  243. 

Margaret,  182,  183. 

Marguerite,  La,  160,  161,  162. 

Mary  Magdalen,  33. 

Mary,  The  Virgin,  149,  196,  205, 

224,  225,  226. 
Mellyagraunce,  9,  10,  11,  240. 
Miles,  Lord,  154. 
Miles,  196,  ip7,  204. 
Morris,  William,  xxxiii,  sqq. 
Mountfort,  Countess,  102. 

Newcastle,  John  of,  135. 

Oliver,  Sir,  164,  166. 
Oliver,  192,  193. 
Ortaise,  133. 
Ossian,  xiu. 

Palomydes,  34,  42,  46,  241. 

Paris,  208. 

Paul,  33. 

Pembroke,  66. 

Percival,  45,  50. 

Percy,  Reliqucs,  xiv. 

Peter,  33. 

Phelton,  66. 

Picard,  Jacques,  142. 

Plombiere,  Peter,  63,  64. 

Poictou,  93. 

Rapunzel,  109,  no,  in,  1x2,  118, 

121,  123,  124,  125. 
Robert,   Sir,   122,   172,    173,   207, 

208,  209,  211,  212,  2i6,  217,  219, 

220. 
Roger,  Lord,  163,  164. 


254 


INDEX 


Roland,  Knight,  225,  226. 

Roland,  Sir,  172,  174. 

Rossetti,  xxxi,  xxxii,  xxxvii,  xli, 

xlii. 
Rouen,  247. 
Roux,  Alleyne,  134. 
Rowley  Poems,  xx,  xxi. 
Ruskin,  xxx. 

Sangreal,  The,  44,  48,  242.  ' 
Sanxere,  66,  245. 
Scott,  xiv,  XV,  xxiv,  xxv. 
Sebald,  King,  log,  no,  in,  113, 
116,  117,  121,  123,  125,  127,  128. 
Shelley,  xxiv. 
Solomon,  King,  48,  243. 
St.  George,  65,  72,  97. 
St.  Ives,  72. 
St.  Joseph,  24. 
Stamford  Bridge,  216,  217,  220. 


Swinburne,  xxxix,  xl. 

Tennyson,  xxix,  xxxv,  xli. 
Tristram,  34,  35. 

Ursula,  171,  172,  173. 

Ventadour,  134,  248. 

Verville,  135,  136. 

Violet,  EUayne  le,  196,  205. 

Wade,  103,  246. 
Watts-Dunton,  xxvii,  li. 
Westminster,  66. 
Witch,  The,  109,  no,  iii,  112,  115, 

117,  127,  128,  129. 
Wordsworth,  xvii,  xx,  xxii,  xxviii. 

Yoland  of  the  Flowers,  191,  192, 
193- 


»5S 


Richard  Clay  &  sons,  Limited, 

bread  street  hill,  e.c.,  and 

bungay,  suffolk. 


YC159177 


